


The Carnival

by Erato_Muse



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Backpackers, Benandanti, Bonding, Carnival, Elio is 18, Folklore, Knotting, M/M, Soulmates, Werewolves, backpacking, oliver's fiancee - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2020-03-30 02:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 131,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19032889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erato_Muse/pseuds/Erato_Muse
Summary: When Oliver, 24, his girlfriend, and friends stumble upon a village somewhere in Northern Italy during a backpacking trip, during the chaos and romance of Carnival. They become drawn into a hidden world of good and evil werewolves, and supernatural hunters who live in the shadows. Oliver feels drawn to Elio, 18, who is a werewolf, but as their feelings deepen a persistent threat keeps them apart.....Oliver's journey back to Elio is one of challenges and transformations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, y'all, its Erato! There have been a few different versions of this work, but this draft is comprised of the first draft I posted between July and December 2018, and the sequel to that work, which was called The Transformation. I have a new appreciation for that work, and wish to share it with anyone who enjoyed it the first time, and hope new readers find and enjoy it, as well. I was so embarrassed by what I thought was its rough edges, but now it appeals to me to create an honest archive of my own, here on this site. This is how I wrote this story, at one time. I am changing, and it will change, too. These are my footprints:)

The residents of the hostel were all eating light dinners, mostly microwaved things. There were some friendly Dutch and German kids, one Australian who was maybe overfriendly. Oliver wasn’t always comfortable around new people. He was either that guy who answered monosyllabically to questions meant to be conversation starters, or overdid it trying to be likeable and friendly and the person he was talking to either asked for his or offered their number. So, he just sat on the floor on the little coffee table waiting for Dan, Jen, and Daphne to come back. They were freshening up. He was reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein for the millionth time while the German kids sang. Someone had brought a guitar. Someone at these establishments always does.  
“Hey! There you are!” said Daphne. “I have a surprise for you. I bought them before we left. If you think its corny, be honest with me.”  
“Okay…what is it?” he asked.  
“Define ‘surprise’, Ollie,” Daphne teased. This was their dynamic-she was the fun one, leading him through life by the hand. That was Daphne’s dynamic with most people she cared about. If someone told her they were new in town, she became their unofficial tour guide, and showed them everything she loved. If they were introverted or bookish, that just meant they needed to be brought out of their shell. Daphne took her boyfriend’s hand and led him to the room she’d be sharing with her best friend Jen and two Dutch girls. Like the rest of the hostel, it was minimalist, the four metal bunkbeds with thin twin mattresses, and one desk with a fold out chair.  
Daphne pulled her backpack from under the bed and opened it.  
“Voila!” Daphne said, and pulled something small and black from the backpack, moving in her fluid and spritely way behind him and began tying the little black mask over his eyes.  
“What is this for, Daph?” Oliver asked.  
“I knew we’d be passing through this area for carnival! We should go! And, we have to wear masks-its tradition,” Daphne said.  
“I look ridiculous,” Oliver said.  
“Technically, you haven’t seen yourself yet,” she said.  
“I just know, trust me. I never even wore costumes for Halloween as a kid,” Oliver said.  
“Aww, come on. What about school plays?” Daphne said.  
“Well, this one time…” Oliver said, then stopped.  
“This one time, what?” Daphne prodded.  
“I was Mordecai in a Purim pageant at the community center when I was 8. I had to wear this fake beard,” Oliver said.  
Daphne laughed. “No way! That sounds super adorable. I bet you were a really cute Mordecai,” she said.  
“I don’t know. The beard itched like Hell,” he said.  
“At least you weren’t Haman,” She said.  
“Yeah, that kid’s social life took a real nose dive. Can I take this thing off, Daph?” he said.  
Daphne sat on the bottom bunk, looking crestfallen.  
“Yeah, sure,” she said.  
He was always surprised whenever these caprices of her’s actually seemed important. He didn’t want to be a stick in the mud, holding her back. He felt like he was, most of the time.  
“So, what’s the carnival like? I didn’t realize it was a tradition here. You usually think of Venice,” He said, trying to smooth over the moment.  
“Well, this region was actually apart of the Republic of Venice, so that’s when it started,” Daphne said. “I read about all this online. I guess it was silly. It’s probably a big tourist trap, anyway.”  
“I’m sure it’s fun. I just feel silly in this thing,” Oliver said.  
“I think you look sexy and mysterious. Like the Lone Ranger. You know, wearing masks at carnival and having masked balls was actually banned in this country at one point, because people had anonymous sexual liaisons at them? It was, like, moral decay,” Daphne said.  
“You do your research,” Oliver said.  
Daphne smiled. They kissed. As usual, something was missing. It felt good in all the ways a kiss possibly could, her soft lips and naughty, undulating tongue, and the way her fingertips danced along his neck. Daphne was gorgeous-long dark hair, athletic build, warm brown eyes-and between the two of them she was the fun and outgoing one who made friends and hosted “Game of Thrones” season premiere parties or dragged everyone to festivals in the park or a new restaurant. She was the center of their circle of friends, everyone loved her. Oliver’s parents loved her. She wasn’t Jewish, which they would have preferred, but she was smart, polite, and if he was honest about it, she seemed intent on getting married after they graduated. So, his parents had little to complain about. Oliver wondered why he didn’t feel the way he should about someone he knew he loved in every other way. This trip through Europe should have been romantic, even with Dan and Jen around. It was fun, but he didn’t feel any more into Daphne in Northern Italy than he did in the U.S.  
She pulled away. “I have one, too,” she said, and reached once more into the backpack. Before she could put on her carnival mask, Jen walked in. Secretly, Jen reminded Oliver of Emma Woodhouse, Jane Austen’s purposefully uncouth heroine. She didn’t mean to be a snob, she just understood people a lot better if they had gone to the same expensive private Christian schools she had. She probably didn’t even know how offensive she sometimes sounded when she talked about current events and politics. But, she and Daph had actually been best friends since middle school, and applied to the same college so they could continue their ‘besties’ story into adulthood.  
“Oh, snap. Did I walk in on ‘Fifty Shades of Daphne’?” Jen quipped.  
Oliver blushed and ripped the mask off his face as fast as he could.  
"Mind your manners, and knock next time, if you don't mind, Jenny?" Daphne said, becoming jokingly prim. Her southern accent became more pronounced, as it did when she was talking to Jen or another native. Linguistically, it was called ‘code switching’: changing your accent to better fit your surroundings or peers. With Oliver, her voice was tonelessly American, and she felt free to express her opinions about life. He’d come to their state for college, because their university had the program in Anthropology he was looking for. Around kids like herself, who were clean cut and old money in a distinctly southern and conservative way, she sounded like a southern belle in an old movie. Scarlett O’ Hara by way of MTV’s “The Hills.”  
“You’re so different from everybody I’ve always known,” She used to tell him, until Oliver suspected she figured out he didn’t like it very much.  
“Were y’all doing something kinky?” Jen asked.  
“In these beds? No way!” Daphne said, gesturing to the lack of space.  
“Anyway, Ollie-this is the girls’ room,” Jen said. “Am-scray.”  
Daphne kissed his cheek. “Sorry about the mask. I thought they were funny.”  
“I’ll wear mine, I promise. If you wear your’s,” he said.  
“Sweet! Now, get out,” Daphne said happily. She was having a great time on their trip, full of humor and affection. It didn’t matter if she talked differently around different sets of people, she was open minded and easy to love. She hadn’t felt anything missing in their kiss, apparently.  
Oliver went to the guy’s room, which he was sharing with the Australian, the German kid with the guitar, and Jen’s boyfriend, Dan. When they were introduced, Dan had said, “Anthropology? Like, a throat doctor?” and then played it off as a joke. He wasn’t an intellectual, by any means, but still liked to win arguments, interrupt people, and talk over someone trying to make an opposing point. He hadn’t thought Dan, who wore duck and boat shoes with everything, would be into the idea of a backpacking trip, but when Daph and Jen brought it up quickly proclaimed that he loved the outdoors, citing his hunting trips with his father and brothers. He’d even been duck hunting in South America with his father and some business associates.  
“What’s wrong, bubba? You’re looking green!” Dan had chortled, noticing the look on Oliver’s face.  
“Danny, you know Ollie’s a vegetarian,” Daph had said, her two accents running together, the high class old southern girl and the accentless intellectual, so that she sounded like the two musicians from Flight of the Conchords. She confessed later that she, too, used to deer hunt with her Grandpa, but, “I’m not like that anymore,” she insisted. It was certainly disconcerting to know he was the only person in his friend circle who had never handled a firearm.  
“Oh, Ollie. Welcome to the Bible Belt,” Jen had said, with nasty relish.  
Dan was asleep when Ollie got back to the room.  
“Frankenstein!” Said the Dutch boy, recognizing the book in Oliver’s hand. The boy, slender and sandy blonde, sounded almost English, and was in fact a Gothic Literature major.  
“Yup. A perennial favorite. And we’re so close to the Alps, it felt apropos,” Oliver said.  
“Ah, yes, yes it would,” said the Dutch boy, Willem. Finally: someone Oliver could say ‘Apropos’ around! They talked about how the Alpine scenery had influenced the work of Mary Shelley and Lord Byron, and the eighteenth century Gothic movement in general.  
“Are you a literature major, too?” Willem asked.  
“No,” Oliver said, regretfully.  
His father hadn’t thought that was a very responsible major. Anthropology sounded more legit, somehow. He enjoyed it, having grown up devouring National Geographic. He wouldn’t mind living on the fringes of a previously uncontacted Amazonian tribe one day. Or, maybe he could study Southern rich kids, who dressed like they were on their way to a yacht club but bragged of shooting animals for trophies and Instagram pics, drove European cars and rolled down their windows so they could crank their radios all the way up and blare Kid Cudi, Childish Gambino and Kanye West but had the same old-fashioned views as their grandparents. He certainly found Daphne’s friends and his other college acquaintances unique specimens.  
Willem told him that the area was also quite riddled with legends of werewolves, witches and such. “But, all of Europe is,” he added, as if it was nothing, really. Of course, there were a couple of urban legends where Oliver was from, too, a haunted house or lane here and there, and of course the kitschy Jersey Devil, but it was nothing like Daphne and her friend’s familiarity with ‘hants’, as they were regionally called. Seemed everyone had an encounter with a Civil War, slave, or colonial ghost in an attic or floating around an old oak tree. They were blithe about it, the way they were blithe about having lots of money and killing animals for fun.  
He’d taken a folklore class for his Anthropology degree, and it excited him more than he wanted it to. Folklore was, as far as cultural studies went, like a half sister from one’s father’s first marriage-there, but seldom thought of. He knew his father would think he was being frivolous if he switched his major to sorting the world’s bogie stories into Arne-Thompson-Uther tale types. Still, he soaked up Willem’s stories of battles in air between good and bad witches wielding sorghum brooms, men who turned into wolves after reciting a litany to the full moon or drinking water puddled in the tracks of a wolf, she-wolves who shed their pelts to become good wives and then put their fur on again and slipped into the forest, the midnight sabbaths of secret pagans who worshipped the goddess Diana long after the Church had outlawed the Roman gods, and the outlandish coerced confessions of the medieval witch trials.  
Willem was good fun, sure of himself, and tossed in dark little jokes as he recounted all this stuff. He couldn’t wait, he told Oliver, to head into Switzerland and follow the path of Byron’s exile, to get as close as he could to the Villa Diodati where Mary Shelley had gotten the idea for Frankenstein. Oliver thought that sounded wonderful. They both agreed that Byron was fascinating but complicated, and probably could have been kinder to Polidori.  
Dan had woken up.  
“Y’all gonna flirt all night? I’m bushwhacked, myself,” Dan said, in that ‘I don’t mean any harm, Bubba,’ tone that most people mistook for a certain smug charm. Oliver had overheard a girl in Jen and Daphne’s acquaintance say once, “Here are Dan’s good points: he’s hot, he’s rich, his parents have a boat, and a house by the lake. Here are his bad points: he’s a jerk.” Everyone knew Dan was a jerk, but the parents and the lake house and the boat were more important. It was bad math.  
“Sorry, friend,” Willem said amiably, and clicked off the lamp on the desk, settling into his bunkbed.  
The word ‘flirting’ buzzed around Oliver’s head the way the air had swarmed with Catherine Earnshaw’s name when Mr. Lockwood lay in her childhood bed at Wuthering Heights. Flirting. Had he been flirting with Willem? They’d talked of the area’s oddities, literature, and historical figures. But, what had Dan heard in his voice? ‘Dan’s just a dick’, he consoled himself. And, he was repressed. And an idiot. He piled on whatever unfavorable adjective he could find about Dan, but the fact remained he was shaken by the idea that he had been flirting with another guy.

The next morning, Oliver woke up and Daphne was dressed in her University of Central Virginia Richmond sweatshirt and army green cargo pants, waiting for him looking adorably underdressed. Back home, she was the perfect sundress and sandals in summer, perfect sweater and skinny jeans with equestrian boots type, as were Jen and her other friends. Girls that all seemed to have the same purses and phone cases, to be each other’s former private school classmates, cousins, or cousins of classmates, and when they hung out on someone’s boat or at someone’s parents’ beach cabin in South Carolina, they brought along their boyfriends who looked and acted like Dan. Oliver wasn’t about to start wearing duck shoes all the damn time, and he didn’t want to discuss the economy or politics with those guys, either. At least Daph looked at him with a certain loving pride. He was too old to care about not fitting in, right?  
“What’s the story, morning glory?” he asked.  
“Oh, Ollie, you’re so dang corny sometimes, you know that?” she said. “The water goes cold so fast. I hate cold showers.”  
“Well, we can find an agroturismo inn or something in the village. You know, ask around,” he said.  
“Yum! Homemade pasta in an old farmhouse. I always wanted to be Liv Tyler in “Stealing Beauty.” That’s Arwen Evenstar, to you,” Daph said.  
“Did I ever tell you about the Arwen Evenstar poster over my bed when I was in junior high and high school?” he asked.  
“Junior and senior high, prime masturbating years, so no, don’t tell me any more!” Daphne said in a chipper voice. She was so funny, and so comfortable with her looks, never jealous. “Did you really have a crush on an elf?”  
“She’s a super hot elf,” he said. Daphne laughed, and they talked about the places they wanted to see next on their trip as they walked together to the common room of the hostel. Oliver slipped his arm around Daph’s waist as he noticed Willem sitting at a fold out table. He waved, but Oliver pretended he had been so absorbed in Daphne’s story of Jen freaking out about the toilets and then learning that the flush wasn’t as strong in Europe.  
“This really isn’t her and Dan’s scene, is it?” Oliver said. “I think they thought it would by more of an Instagram thing.”  
“I like backpacking! I like seeing beautiful things with you. We’ll be able to tell our kids that we did this,” Daph said, and took his hand. They kissed.  
“Don’t y’all ever quit? Are you ready to get out of here, or what? Are we taking a bus? I’m not hitchhiking. You can’t trust all foreigners,” Jen said.  
“Uh, Jen, we’re in their country, we’re the foreigners,” Daphne said bemusedly.  
Jen rolled her eyes darkly and took a seat in the one soft chair in the common room, a beat up recliner. The TV was on, it looked like the morning news.  
“You’re the morning person between the two of you,” Oliver said.  
“Yes, Lord!” Daphne laughed. “In her defense, I think her throat hurts. Travel bug.”  
“Well, next time we can make it some boozy resort in Mexico,” Oliver said. “More her speed.”  
“Oh, be nice, please?” Daph said.  
“What? I didn’t say anything to her,” he said.  
“Yeah, but still. I guess I just hate it when everyone isn’t having fun,” Daphne said.  
“Babe, no one else’s attitude is your responsibility,” Oliver said.  
Daphne sighed in relief. She smiled. “What would I do without you?”  
They sat on the couch, and Daphne sat on Oliver’s lap. They pulled out a map of the area and planned out their morning and afternoon leg of the trip. The village was close enough that they could just walk, and explore the medieval buildings and twisting stone lanes down narrow alleys.  
“Can’t you just picture all the, like, swordfights and Renaissance intrigue? Like something from “The Borgias”,” Daphne said.  
“Someone’s been watching late night cable TV? Calm down, Daph,” Oliver said. Daphne flipped her long brown hair appealingly. Oliver was conscious that Willem was watching them. Willem the Goth Lit expert, who looked a bit like Percy Bysshe Shelley in fact, with his messy light blonde hair, thin build, and eyes like a cat’s, almond shaped and full of unknowable thoughts. Oliver was fascinated by small, fine boned men. He was, himself, tall, with a solidity carved from boyhood girth. He swam, he jogged, but he had never been into sports. He looked like the type, and when other men hailed him with “What are those Redskins doing this year?” or fevered prognostications about their university’s chances in March Madness, it quickly became awkward conversation that died on the vine. He felt like a poser in his big bones. His rosy tanned skin, reddish blonde hair, and blue eyes were another misleading skin. Whenever someone griped or made an off-color joke about Jewish people, they had no idea they were talking about him. Being of Ukrainian Russian descent, he had some relatives with dark features, other who were fair. He was fair, and Dan had once said to an acquaintance, “Doesn’t look it, does he?” Daphne assured him that people in her state were just “ignorant”. He didn’t find that much of a consolation.  
What if he looked like Willem? Would he get away with being bookish and scholarly, would it be expected of him, or at least tolerated?  
“What’s the plan, Bubba? This was all your idea,” Dan said, slapping him roughly on the shoulder in greeting.  
“There’s an old medieval village not far from here, and there’s going to be a carnival this evening, so me and Ollie wanted to poke around there,” Daph said.  
“A carnival?” Dan said.  
“Not funnel cakes and ferris wheels, Dan,” Daph said. “More like a religious carnival.”  
“Won’t that be awkward for you, Bubba?” Dan said.  
“Why would it be, Dan-O?” Oliver asked.  
Daph glared into the tension between them.  
“What Daph means is that Carnival is a religious occasion in Europe. It’s the time before Lent, a last gasp of celebration before 40 days of sacrificial mourning for the death of Christ, and then the fast is broken at Easter. In the United States, we celebrate it as Mardi Gras,” Oliver said.  
“Ooh, I love the mardi gras in Mobile!” Daph said. Oliver liked the way she said “Mahdee Grah”. It crawled softly up his back. He was relieved that Daphne turned him on, the way kissing her hadn’t yesterday. He had probably just been tired from hiking. That was all, he reassured himself.  
“You’ve been to Alabama?” Oliver asked. His mother’s idea of the south was, unfortunately, defined by old footage of Bull Connor sicing police dogs on Civil Rights demonstrators in the 60s. She had been worried sick about him going to a southern school, even though Virginia was far from Alabama. “Some of those protestors were Jewish, Oliver,” she kept saying. “It was a long time ago, Ma,” he kept responding.  
“My Aunt Patricia lives in Mobile. Babe, you know that!” Daphne said. “So, do you wanna see the Carnival, Dan? I think Jen’s pissed at me.”  
“Who knows, maybe she’s on the rag,” Dan said indifferently. Daph, who was usually full of blithe excuses when one of her friends was politically incorrect, raised her eyebrows.  
“All right. Ready to go?” Daph said.  
“Allons-y,” Oliver responded. He expected Daphne to smile-she loved the tenth Doctor. They were both Whovians. But, she didn’t notice one of their longstanding inside references, the kind all couples had. It troubled him almost as much as feeling nothing when kissing her had.  
“Off to the village?” Willem asked, approaching them.  
“Yup. You?” Oliver said, brusquely.  
“I actually thought of you when I woke up this morning,” Willem said.  
Oliver felt a hot flash of something like embarrassed panic, as if Willem had alluded to a secret around people who aren’t in the know and never should be.  
“There is a place I’d like to show you, if it will not hold you up,” Willem continued.  
“Is it in the village?” Oliver said.  
“No, it’s a trail,” Willem said.  
“Ah…we kinda wanted to discover Crema,” Oliver said. He wanted to make sure Willem understood “we” meant himself in Daphne. He even didn’t mind if he came off a bit rude, or at least as if he was interrupting. Yes, he wanted Willem to realize he was in the wrong and leave him in peace.  
“Um, you can go check it out, and I’ll see about Jen. Go ahead, it’s fine, Babe,” Daphne said. They kissed again, and Daphne casually patted his ass.

“So…have any strange dreams?” Willem asked, waving his fingers like a kid telling a cheesy ghost story.  
Oliver laughed. “No, but the first time I read ‘Carmilla’ it scared the shit out of me.”  
This made Willem laugh, and they discussed Sheriedan Le Fanu’s novel about a female vampire that actually predated Dracula. Oliver preferred Carmilla, an elegant novel about discomfiting desire between two beautiful young women. He felt less perturbed at Willem under a friendly sky, the forest before them. They entered the trees, and the light became green tinted and sparse, sunlight falling through slats in the arch of evergreens overhead. The smell of them was sweet, almost cloyingly sweet. Fresh.  
“Ahhhh,” Oliver breathed. “That new car smell.”  
“Really? Is that all you’ve got?” Willem asked, shaking his head. Oliver laughed. He would be the gauche American. He liked that they were developing a schtick so quickly.  
The forest trail opened out to a clear pool fed by a waterfall, nestled in an outcropping of large boulders. Oliver took in the rushing white water and the roaring song of it, feeling the sound fill his mind and drive out any other thought. His whole body tingled with awe, at the beauty of it. He had to get closer and ran to the rocks. He climbed one, and happily let the water spray his face.  
“Worth losing your early start?” Willem said.  
“Sure was! But…didn’t you say these woods were haunted?” Oliver asked.  
“Catherine Morland,” Willem teased him, referencing the heroine of Northanger Abbey, who’d convinced herself that Gothic tales were happening all around her just as in the sensational novels she read.  
“You’re right, I’m being morbid,” Oliver said. He stretched out on the rocks, looking up at water, treetops, and sky.  
“Why did you ignore me this morning?” Willem asked.  
“I was with Daphne,” Oliver said, as if it explained everything.  
“Is this your honeymoon?” Willem said.  
“No, no, we’re not married yet. We’re not even engaged. It just seems to be going that way,” Oliver said.  
“Rivers go one way, not lives. We’re not waterfalls, Oliver,” Willem said. It was surprisingly ardent. He’d had friendships like this before, which consisted of fizzy banter, trading factoids of pet interests, all the while basking in each other’s proximity and expressions. No one had ever said anything serious, and the end of a semester or graduation carried these young men out of his life the way this water, flowing, tumbling, churning as a river became a waterfall carried fish, pine needles, leaves, acorns, maybe the odd bit of blasphemous litter for miles from their origin. Sometimes he smarted to see that these men weren’t gay, that he had been misled by a certain wit or softness of voice, and he felt betrayed to see them with a girl or talk about one. But, he had Daphne, so he understood and felt safe in his choices. Some guys he knew were out, and their world of hookups arranged by apps on their phones, certain clubs and bars, was alluring to him. Most of his favorite artists-poets, novelists, filmmakers, painters-were gay, but after a while he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t just sympathetic, or progressive. He was also curious. He felt like shrinking when guys made homophobic jokes, feeling as if they were digging him for his secret, and in a trance of postponed guilt he found himself looking at amateur gay porn on social media and masturbating for relief from the futile desire the pictures of men holding their cocks out, as if offering their erect, dripping cocks out to the viewer, or fucking themselves with sex toys, or being pounded by older men in leather daddy get ups, even GIFs of men in the act, provoked in him.  
He felt baffled disgust at himself, that he had told himself he would stop, and kept doing it “I don’t want to be this way,” he thought, he told God. The Torah was clear, his father was clear, on where homosexuals fit in their world, and that was not at all. His mother was less harsh on the subject, and said, “Well, they’re confused. People can always change, can’t they?” Oliver felt a glimmer of hope when he researched the increasingly progressive outlook of Reform Judaism, but he wasn’t a Reform anything-he was simply his father’s son. His father decided things, ruled their lives it was why his mother tip toed around and did everything perfectly, why Oliver’s sister and brother glared at him for asking questions, being different, being difficult. The threat of his father’s disapproval, and the more remote but foreboding possibility of his temper, kept them all quiet and tightly held in. No one in their neighborhood, at their temple, knew. They were such good people, and he’d wanted to go home with any other family when he was a kid.  
Willem lay beside him on the rock, the green moss a soft organic blanket beneath them. His secret was out.  
“I can’t just decide how my life goes. I have responsibilities,” Oliver said.  
“Of what nature?” Willem said.  
“My grandfather came to this country a stranger. He worked so hard. And my father….he hates that burden, you know? He hates feeling like he owes it all to someone he wasn’t close to. He’s an angry man. All you can do is make him happy, he won’t hear anything else,” Oliver said. “I’ll never be able to finish school without being in his good books. And he hates gays. If he dislikes a guy at his law office or another firm, nine times out of ten, he calls him a faggot. He just hates it all.”  
“That is difficult. But, you can be yourself when you aren’t under his roof, can’t you?” Willem said.  
“With all due respect, where is this coming from?” Oliver said. He couldn’t admit that no, he couldn’t just pursue this thing even miles, states away from his father. He would still feel how he felt.  
He looked over at Willem, with his delicate beauty. Like David Bowie on the cover of his first album, but with shorter hair. He looked happy, not just at peace but in pleasure. The cool air around the waterfall, the spray of water hitting them, the almost eerie mist that rose from the water, it all pleased him. He was so relaxed. Oliver never felt like that.  
“I just thought you seemed a little sad, and that makes you a little mysterious, and that makes you quite handsome. I don’t know. Just wanted to talk to you,” Willem said. “We won’t get another chance, will we?”  
“No, I suppose not, and you have to know if you were right about me? I think you are. I guess you are. But I want to shake it, marry Daph and…I don’t know. I don’t know after that,” Oliver said.  
“But, you don’t want to be the kind of man your father hates? I understand that,” he said.  
This was better than porn. It was all the friendship he felt with Daphne, but with the added excitement of the appreciation he felt for Willem’s body, his girlish body, but, no, it was more androgynous than girlish. Ariel, an alchemical sylph. Oliver kissed him. He liked Willem’s full lips, and the stubble he hadn’t noticed because Willem’s hair was so light, and it was only just starting to grow out. He felt it now and nuzzled against the bristles. Willem grabbed handfuls of Oliver’s hair, running his fingers through it and mussing it up as their kiss deepened. This was that forbidden, inaccessible place he imagined and ached for when he touched himself hurriedly to pictures from the internet of lewd selfies, men he would never meet and couldn’t touch. This was it, what he was afraid to admit and couldn’t seem to change. He loved it, like the first bite of some decadent dessert. He grew hard, and Willem slipped his leg between Oliver’s legs, letting him grind it out against his leg. He relished the friction.  
He was surprised when Willem pushed against his chest, signaling for him to let him up, because Oliver had felt carried away by arousal, in a happy dazed little corridor of his own feelings. It wasn’t like this with Daphne. He told himself he just didn’t like sex with condoms, or that it was the same litany of unvaried positions that made it stale. What excited him most was when she blew him. Wild, but useless hope fluttered within him that she would finger him, but he wouldn’t bring up something like that with her, a nice Baptist girl who loved purse shopping with her mom, baking, and Nicholas Sparks novels when she wasn’t knee deep in her political science major.  
“Let’s cool off, shall we?” Willem asked, and was the first to strip off his tshirt, then pants, underwear, and shoes. He looked up, at the source of the falling water, his face blissful, his nipples aroused and perky, his cock half hard, and he dove into the water. Oliver took off his clothes and followed. He didn’t want to swim in cold water, or chance even a short dive on hitting a buried rock. He just wanted to be with Willem, so he followed him.

 

The wolves were hidden in the trees, watching the two naked young men kiss as they swam, the waterfall behind them. Wolves were nocturnal animals. Elio and Marzia knew they were not supposed to be out in the day, but the Carnival was soon and they both felt bored and wild with anticipation.  
The men, hikers from the youth hostel, brought a new smell to the fresh, muddy, pinesweet smell of the forest. They smelled like sweat, food, chemicals, and a certain ozone spice of arousal as they embraced, kissed, broke apart to swim closer to the falls, stopped at a safe distance from them and kissed again. The smaller man didn’t interest Elio. The bigger one did. When he was in this form, human bodies were far more fascinating than when he was human himself. So much skin, so vulnerable, almost wormy in its bareness, and the personality which drove each body. Sadness, confidence, secrets-emotions marked the way people moved the way sickness, hunger, health, and age marked how animals moved.  
The wordless telepathy between the two creatures told Elio that Marzia was amused by the two men. Secret Lovers-sounded admittedly like the title of an old book or song. Did such things happen in real life? They were witnessing it. Elio thought they were pale and vulnerable as only human bodies can be, beautiful. It felt like they had somehow earned their privacy. He nuzzled Marzia, saying, ‘Let’s go.’ And they ran, as wolves were not meant to do in the day.  
They reached the grounds of the Villa Sforza, and when they’d passed the old stone statue of the goddess Bona Dea, the earth mother, they became human once more in the shade of the tress of the orchard.  
Marzia became once more a soft bodied young woman with long dark hair and green eyes. Elio was slender, with dark hair and green eyes, too. They could have been siblings, twins, the same beauty distributed male and female, like Apollo the sun god and Diana his sister, or at the very least Louis Garrel and Eva Green in Bertolucci’s “The Dreamers.” But, they weren’t related at all. What they shared was this-the ability to change, to surrender to the metamorphosis. “All angels, good and bad, have the power to change their shape,” St Thomas Aquinas had once said. They were not angels, but Benandante, wolves.  
After the strength of their lupine bodies, they felt a discomfort in their human skin, a momentary panic that felt like being watched in a private moment. Elio felt the need to be alone, after what he had seen, the two young men kissing in the pool as the waterfall fell behind them.  
Marzia grabbed his arm. “We have to hurry. If they know we’ve been out, they’ll be furious,” she reminded him. It was true. They were supposed to wait for the full moon. That was hard to do. It felt so good, the transformation, a wave of intense sensations like an ocean inside, and then what they became-stronger, free, and every sense heightened.  
Elio let himself be pulled along, and they snuck into the villa, his family’s home, past the portraits of his green-eyed ancestors from the Renaissance, in and out of pools of hot afternoon light and lacy shadows shed from windows at the end of long corridors, into his bedroom. The door slammed shut too heavily, and both their eyes widened in fear of being detected. They were shaky, paranoid, and knew it, and laughed the fear off when it passed.  
Marzia fell on Elio’s bed as if falling backwards into a pool. Her hair was dark and silky on his pillow, and her eyes shone, an intense green like the ocean at the height of the afternoon, like leaves against a stormy sky.  
She stretched, her undulating body unintentionally sensual.  
“The carnival is soon,” she said.  
Elio nodded. The Carnival was a tradition in the village, a night of masked debauchery before Lent. Maybe creatures like themselves weren’t the only ones with the ability to transform, humans just needed a little help. The masks they wore on the occasion were ornate and beautiful, playfully grotesque, frightening, and perhaps they helped the wearers to inhabit other personalities. Maybe the others would let them, he and Marzia, roam the streets in masks, too, masks they didn’t need to become something else.  
Marzia subtly beckoned to him, and he came to her. They kissed, and hot sunlight fell on Elio’s back, hot on his shoulders as they kissed, as he entered her, and her body accepted him. As they embraced in Elio's bed, he thought of the two men he had seen kissing, especially the bigger one. There was something about the way he had touched the smaller man, about how he had held him, how his shoulders and neck had moved as he kissed him with the mist of the falls frothing around them. He had waited for this, the kiss, for a long time. Elio knew that anticipation, frustration, and the jubilance of release when it came. It was how he felt when he waited for the moon. 


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver

The cool water rushed around their bodies as they kissed, and the weightless feeling that water always inspired made Oliver feel free and happy, more so than he could remember feeling for a long time. Maybe in the wholesome pleasures of childhood-riding a bicycle, the impromptu gymnastics of children playing together in the backyard during summer-he’d felt like this. Never in a sensual moment had he felt this kind of elation and freedom.  
Willem swam to the edge of the pool, and kept his hand in Oliver’s, climbing one of the boulders and helping Oliver to do the same.  
“How’d you find this place? It’s hidden in plain sight,” Oliver said.  
Willem merely smiled enigmatically. There was something enigmatic and playful about him. Being around him was heady. They resumed their kiss, laying on the moss of the boulder. Oliver delighted in the mist and cold forest air caressing his wet naked body, and in Willem’s body beneath him. Willem wrapped his legs around Oliver. His erection lay between them. In the amateur porn he clandestinely looked at, he’d seen men wrap one hand around their cock and that of their lover’s, bringing them together, the tips weeping the pellucid pre-fluid. He could do this now. The possibility alone turned him on, and the arousal boomeranged throughout his lower body.  
“We should head back,” Willem said.  
“No,” Oliver murmured against his neck as he kissed it.  
“What about your girlfriend?” he asked.  
Daphne. Willem was right. They sat up.  
“Forgive me,” Willem said. “this got out of hand.”  
“I got carried away. We both did,” Oliver said. “It’s okay.”  
“Okay? I don’t see how you can live like this,” Willem said. “Wouldn’t it be easier to do what you want?”  
“It’s not just my life. I have a family. We have beliefs. I don’t want to disappoint them. They matter to me,” he said. It was disappointing that Willem didn’t understand. He loved his mother, brother, and sister. His father’s temper and easy to provoke displeasure made things tense when he was around, but so often he hadn’t been. He had secretly not minded at all when his dad stayed late at the office. His siblings were his best friends, and he adored his mother, even though she was full of fluttery fears and far fetched anxieties. If his father cut him out of their lives, he would lose and hurt the only people he really cared about. His dad seemed to approve of Daphne-her father was a lawyer too, so she spoke his language, and she was so demure and classic around older people. He even seemed to tease her with the context that she could do better than his son. “What does an anthropologist’s wife do? It sounds like my son wants to cart you somewhere around the Equator to watch people make simple tools in a circle,” he’d joked at dinner once.  
Daphne had made some flawless but neutral joke and kept the evening going, and Oliver saw that this would be the pattern of their life.  
He and Willem got dressed and avoided looking each other in the eye as they did so. Oliver had never made out with a guy, before. He’d never felt so turned on with Daphne. His skin was still buzzing, and inside he felt hot and distracted, as if he was ill. He’d have to masturbate in the shower before he and Daph set out to explore the village together, and take in the attractions of the Carnival. His elation dimmed at one corner. Would it get worse now, that he knew this is what he wanted?

Elio  
Elio and Marzia lay tangled up in each other, the cover wound around them more than covering them up.  
“It was those hikers, wasn’t it? You liked spying on them,” she said.  
“So did you,” he said.  
She merely giggled. “Maybe,” she said.  
“They were so…human,” Elio said.  
“Well, yes. That’s exactly what they are,” Marzia said.  
“You know what I mean. I wonder what its like to just be like them, to never change,” He said.  
“I never think of it,” She said. She slipped out of bed, opened his sock drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. Marzia went out to the balcony overlooking the garden, the pool, the outdoor dining table and the statue of the goddess, and smoked, naked and relaxed, her long shining hair as tempting as the ocean on a hot day. He wanted her again, wanted to swim in her the way the two hikers had swam in the pool. Elio joined her on the balcony, and kissed the smoke from her mouth.  
Oliver  
It was different, fantasizing now that he had actually touched and kissed a man. Oliver touched himself in the shower, biting the inside of his mouth to stifle the cry. If he could have screamed, he would have. His orgasm was a star being born, a fault line waking up. He felt intensely satisfied. He was wary of running in to Dan when he went back to the room to change clothes, but was relieved to see only the genial Australian. They nodded in greeting, and Oliver changed, then went to the common room and met up with Daphne to start out for the village.  
“Hey-did you take any pictures?” Daphne asked.  
“Nah. I was in the moment,” Oliver said.  
“Oh, okay. Is that what the cool kids are doing, taking selfies is just so over?” Daphne said.  
“It’s called mindfulness,” Oliver said.  
“Like adult coloring?” Daphne said. Oliver laughed. They could keep going like this for a while. Whatever else he failed to feel for her, she was his best friend.  
Daphne was all packed, and Oliver quickly packed up his things. Rick Steves would be aghast-with their backpacks they looked like obvious tourists. But, the village was small, remote, and peaceful, not the kind of place where it seemed like they would have to worry about juvenile pickpockets. And, maybe being obvious tourists would help them find a more interesting place to stay than the youth hostel, an inn that was still a working farm or vineyard. That would be a lovely memory to take home, spending time in a place like that.  
“So, Willem seems nice,” Daphne said, as they walked alone on a dusty back road between the village and the sloping verdant farmland of the countryside. Shade was sparse, and the sun was already becoming high and bright, the morning chill burning off quickly.  
“He’s really informed about the local superstitions around here. Fascinating stuff,” Oliver said.  
“Ah, so you were collecting ghost stories?” Daphne said.  
“More like shapeshifters and witches. Basic,” Oliver quipped.  
“Oh, gosh. What is it, from ‘A Company of Wolves’? Look for a guy with a unibrow, right?” Daphne said.  
They both laughed. Oliver felt more at ease than he had in a while. He told Daph scary stories Willem had told him, and she laughed at them. Child of the south she was, she firmly believed ghosts could be ignored or reasoned with. She spoke of them with a fondness, even as if they were stray pets that just needed love.  
“You really believe any of that stuff?” He asked.  
“Better safe than sorry,” she said.  
“You know, some people study stuff like this for a living,” he said.  
“Oh, like those ‘Ghost Adventures guys?” she said.  
“No, I mean more like collecting local folklore throughout the world. Being a folklorist,” he said.  
“You’d be an idiot to switch your major right now, Oliver. Look, I hate to say it, but its true. You know that,” she said.  
He wasn’t surprised. He liked her toughness. She’d be an amazing correspondent on those political commentary shows on cable, where everyone interrupts each other.  
“I get it. I just find it an interesting field. I took this one class, few semesters ago. You know what, never mind,” he said.  
“I’m sorry. Too sharp?” She asked.  
He’d been his Willem self, with Daphne. He’d been spoiled by the freedom of talking about what he was really passionate about with someone, and just kept on doing it. How had this scrawny boy with messy blonde hair, like Mike Waters in “My Own Private Idaho”, shaped a new self out of him in just a couple of days, with just one amazing kiss by a waterfall? Oliver was suddenly frightened, at what dreams tumbled out of one’s mouth when they were excited by someone new.  
“Daph, you know me better than anybody. I value your opinion. It’s okay,” he said. A farmer transporting his wares to the market at the edge of the village stopped and offered them a ride. They accepted, and found seats amongst summer melons and young farm laborers.  
“Hi, how are y’all doing?” Daphne asked in English, and then with a cute little ‘Oops!’ face switched to Italian. Oliver said hi, too. The men greeted them langorously, exhausted from their labor and the sun.  
“You’re here for the carnival,” one of them said definitively, rather than asking.  
“Yes!” Daphne said excitedly.  
“Be careful. Don’t wander around alone. The Beast will get you!” he said roguishly, and the others laughed.  
Daphne didn’t have the words exactly for what she wanted to say, but managed to ask something like, “Is it a local scary story?”  
“The carnival is for the Beast. It always has been,” said another young man.  
“Did Willem mention anything like that?” Daphne asked Oliver.  
“Nope. He didn’t,” Oliver said.  
She shrugged, looking bemusedly at Oliver. They would find out when they reached the village, her look said, and neither of them asked the other passengers any more questions.  
Elio  
He wanted Marzia again, he wanted the hikers he had seen in the pool, wanted to watch them continue, watch them make love, wanted to join them in the water. The roar of the waterfall rang in his memory, wouldn’t leave his thoughts.  
“I can hear you, you know. Settled down,” Marzia said, but she loved it. She loved how overheated he was, gripped by this sudden need for another body. The villagers believed that in these few days before the beginning of Lent, an old god they called merely the Beast roamed, stirring up all the hungers people hid beneath the routines of their days. Whatever venality they dreamed of in a pocket of their hearts was given some degree of license. Maybe in another time, it had been tied somehow to the seasons, and the changes is the air. Was this a season? It had happened so suddenly.  
Marzia stroked him lovingly, with the infinite patience that shone from her eyes and her smile. She was smart, a little naughty, but mostly she was very, very kind. They both shuddered as he entered her. Elio felt something else besides the glorious warmth and wetness of Marzia’s body. He felt like he’d been hit with a cold wave. He couldn’t see anything for a few frightening minutes, and when he recovered his sight he wasn’t in bed, he was in the village.  
He didn’t feel his own body, but he could see, clearly enough. The villagers had begun the most inoffensive of the carnival festivities. Children roamed around in masks they had probably made at school with craft supplies, or painted faces, and adults wore cheap masks too, as parade processions went by playing loud, cheerful music. The doors of shops, restaurants, and cafes were thrown open. Elio had left his body, he knew, but he could hardly do anything about it. Fear wouldn’t put him back, so he couldn’t panic.  
“Ooh, look,” said a girl with long brown hair, wearing denim shorts and a sweatshirt, and a backpack. She tugged her companion’s arm. It was one of the hikers from the waterfall, Elio as sure, the big one. He remembered his big body, largely untanned, the skin vulnerable where it wasn’t covered in hair that ranged from blonde to russet auburn. He was clothed now, but Elio was sure it was him. Elio looked in the direction the girl had indicated.  
The Triumph of the Beast.  
Villagers in outlandishly elaborate costumes, the court finery of the Renaissance, and large painted heads made out of paper walked before the crowd on the streets. They wore different colors to represent different virtues-Chastity, Temperance, etc. They were grouped in s sort of rank, of the importance of the virtue, the way captives were ranked in importance during a Roman triumph, a parade of spoils.  
The last figure was The Beast, a villager in the costume of a hairy, horned beast. The message of the procession was that virtue was taking a momentary leave of absence, was suddenly not as important as pleasure.  
“Kitschy. Reminds me of Krampus, the Christmas goblin,” he, the boy Elio had watched earlier said.  
“I guess this is what those guys were talking about,” the girlfriend said.  
“Are you disappointed?” he asked.  
“From what I read, it gets a lot wilder at night,” said the girl. She was clearly the one who led things between them.  
Elio was beginning to feel grounded, calm, until he felt a smack on his face.  
“Don’t do that again!” Marzia said. “I don’t like hitting you.”  
“Then, please, don’t,” Elio said.  
“I didn’t want to have to go find someone. Where did you go?” Marzia asked.  
“Not far,” he said.  
“I left my body once, but I was dreaming. Were you scared?” She asked.  
“Just confused. Seems a rather pointless skill to have,” he said.  
“We didn’t ask to be this way. It’s just how we were born. It’s okay. I guess we wouldn’t have met, otherwise,” Marzia said.  
“Yes, we would have,” Elio said.  
Marzia smiled, as if saying, ‘Yes, well, if you say so.’  
“Sorry,” he said.  
She squeezed his hand forgivingly.


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver  
Daphne put on her mask. “Do I look more….native?” she asked.  
“The backpack gives you away, babe,” Oliver said.  
“Damn!” she laughed. “Come on, let’s try that café.”  
“Remember, don’t order a straight espresso, order an Americano,” Oliver said.  
“Okay, Mr. Coffee Knowledge,” Daphne said. Oliver worked at Starbucks for a while. Hasn’t everyone?  
They dodged a flock of children in little capes and masks. One of them had on a beast mask, like the furry creature in the procession they had just watched. There were still floats and processions parading before the crowd on the street, floats festooned with spring wildflowers and roses that left a sweet, soapy smell in their wake, bearing wooden statues with heavy velvet clothes and wigs Oliver suspected were real human hair, ancient and preserved. Young women in white dresses and crowns of flowers on their head followed them, like brides or Ursulines, virginal martyrs. The music of the musicians on the floats gave the atmosphere a carefree air, that somewhat lessened the enigma of the parade’s attractions.  
Daphne and Oliver walked into the café, and ordered coffee. The woman behind the counter could tell they were tourists, and asked them how they were enjoying the carnival.  
“It’s so vibrant. But, some of the iconography is somewhat arcane to me,” Oliver said.  
“Ollie, just enjoy the show!” Daphne said.  
“The Beast? He has always been apart of the festivities. He lives in the forest. He wakes up, and wants to play. So we let him, for a little while,” Said the coffeeshop owner.  
“I see. That’s very interesting. Do you think he has his origin in pre-Christian vegetation gods?” Oliver asked.  
“I think that everyone needs a good time, every once in a while,” said the woman behind the counter. Daphne nodded as if she agreed, as if she wanted him to stop playing Josh Gates and just let things be fun and exotic, anachronistic and unknowable.  
Why did people delight in proving him wrong, or silly? Ever since he was a kid, it was a given in his life that people considered him bright. That seemed to bring out a certain competitiveness, to prove that he may be ‘book smart’ but was too dry, too singleminded, not ‘fun’ enough, that for all his ‘smarts’ he had other defects. His father did it, Daphne did it, his mother often chided him for ‘overthinking’ and Daphne’s friends…they prided themselves on having bright future and impressive majors, but thinking very little. If he just had a dollar for every time someone said, “Turn up!” or “Moscato”, he’d be as rich as they were.  
“Maybe, once, he was a god. Now, he’s just a silly monster with a big dick,” Said the cofffeshop owner.  
Daphne howled. Like most southern women, she loved a well-timed and unexpected raunchy joke.  
“So, this Beast, are there any local stories about him?” Oliver asked.  
“Stay out of the woods, he will get you, all that, when you’re a kid, yes,” said the woman. “But, at carnival, he finally gets his way and we all act like beasts such as he is. Get really drunk tonight, it keeps him out of the streets the rest of the year.”  
“That’s really interesting,” Oliver said.  
“He’s not like the wolves,” said the coffeshop owner.  
“Wolves?” he asked.  
“Yes. There are the good ones, and the bad ones, the wolves. There is only one Beast, and at least he is not real. Just a man in a mask. Just something the witches used to pray to. But the witches are gone, gone. Just the masks, just the carnival. Have fun,” said the coffeeshop owner. She handed them their coffee and pastries, and Daphne and Oliver sat at one of the tables outside.  
“That was creepy! Why’d you ask so many questions?” Daphne said.  
“Daph, it’s like I was telling you earlier. Stories like that are really common here,” he said.  
“I guess it’s all just a good time,” Daphne said.  
“And, are you having a good time?” Oliver asked.  
“I’m with you,” she said, and reached across the table to hold both his hands. They were two lovers in a foreign country, a holiday being celebrated around them, surrounded by stone buildings and baskets of happy flowers at the windows. It was beautiful, but he didn’t feel close to Daphne. He felt a curiosity about this place and its stories that he knew was tied back to Willem somehow.  
“It’s something you grow out of, these little crushes,” his mother had told him when he confided, only to her, about the way he sometimes felt about his male friends. He knew it was ridiculous, this almost possessive need to share things with them. “You’ll grow out of it,” she’d said, with more force than the empathy and answers he’d expected. She was dictating, ‘You’ll grow out of it,’ and they both knew why. It would make his father mad. What was worse was his mother’s feeling of surprise and horror, as if she herself, quite independent of her anxieties about his father, couldn’t accept it. He wanted to be with Willem, right now. Now, naked, kissing, and on the verge of doing more as they had at the waterfall. He just wanted to be with him, beside him, like two Romantic poets touring Europe.  
“Let’s find a place to stay,” she said. He was reassured by her, by the fact that she was there, even though part of him wanted to be somewhere else.  
Eventually, Dan and Jen found them.  
“I don’t get it-people just wander around dressed like Ru Paul all day?” Dan said.  
“It’s a tradition. You were right, Ollie-it is like Mardi Gras. But more European,” Jen said.  
“Well, we’re in Europe, Jen,” Daphne pointed out.  
“If this was Mardi Gras, someone would be showing some titties,” Dan said, and slapped Oliver on the shoulder.  
“Can you just leave him alone?” Daphne said.  
“What the Hell, Daph? I don’t need you to do that,” Oliver said.  
“Ooooh, boy. Looks like ya did it this time, Danny Boy,” Jen said.  
“Excuse me! I was trying to help,” Daphne said.  
“Let a man be a man, Daffy,” Dan said, although he was the cause of the friction.  
“Y’all, shut up,” Jen said. She was taking picture after picture on her camera. Even Dan, Daphne, and Oliver, as upset as they were, could see why she was so absorbed. Something had happened. The carnival goers wandering the medieval streets had taken on a different character than when they first arrived, the children and their cheap paper masks with feathers and other cheap decorations hot glued in place, or adults in hastily thrown on costumes. The people on the street now obviously took the affair more seriously and had kept to the Venetian custom of obscuring their whole body in costume, so that the masks were terrifyingly blank faces surrounded by satin, velvet, feathers, fake jewels, no skin visible, nothing human about them except the fact that they were walking beside you. Yet, they were colorful and arresting, like strange birds flying through a forest of fairy tales and nightmares.  
Everywhere they turned, someone caught their eye-on the strength of their bright colors alone, because their masks had no expression and their sex could not be determined in these costumes that captured, albeit exaggeratedly, the dress of the Venetian republic at the time it fell.  
Daphne laughed in delight, the way she did as if something tasted good, as if a song was playing that she really loved. She loved life, and she was fierce.  
“I love you, Daph. Sorry,” Oliver said.  
“If you’re really sorry, you’ll wear your mask,” she said.  
He couldn’t refuse her. He put on the silly mask, cheap, thin black velvet, then Daphne slipped her hand in his. They ambled ahead of Dan and Jen, and turned down a street between two quaint brick buildings. The cobblestones were warm and, though rounded, pressed into their feet. A few carnival revelers passed by them, elaborately dressed like all the others increasingly were, in fiery, bright red and gold that made them startling, coming out of nowhere like that. The man tipped his mask in greeting. It was attached to the end of a staff in his hand. He removed it only slightly. His face was still hidden. Everyone’s face was, in adherence to a history of intrigue that the visitors had not prepared long enough even to play at. What he must look like in his t-shirt and shorts, Daphne in her camisole with visible bra straps.  
Oliver looked behind him. Dan and Jen weren’t visible, and for the most part they’d left the mob of costumed people in bright colors behind them.  
“You know, if you stood up to Dan, I wouldn’t have to,” Daphne said.  
“What?” Oliver said.  
“Back there, I only felt like I had to say something to Dan, because you never do,” Daphne said.  
“I’m just trying to be polite. What’s wrong with that?” Oliver asked.  
“It’s not polite. It’s reticent. Or intimidated,” Daphne said.  
Oliver spluttered, like laughter but laced with incredulity.  
“Are you kidding me? Intimidated? Of that unpaid Ralph Lauren spokesmodel? Of Mr. Monopoly’s obnoxious godson? Of that greasy haired idiot who talks like a bit player in ‘Gone With the Wind’?” Oliver said.  
“It’s easy to talk when someone’s not around, but you don’t see yourself when you’re around him. He runs his mouth, you swell up and don’t do or say a damn thing. I guess it’s what you’re used to, but its embarrassing to me,” Daphne said.  
“He’s your asshole friend. Do I ever make a point of the fact that you hang out with assholes?” Oliver said. “And what do you mean, what I’m used to?”  
“You let your father talk to you like that. If you can’t stand up to men you perceive as more assertive than yourself, how are you ever going to land a good job, or a promotion?” Daphne said.  
“A promotion? I don’t have a job right now!” Oliver said.  
“I know, Ollie. I know,” Daphne sighed, her arms folded.  
“I mean, I kinda didn’t want to think about all that. Its spring break,” Oliver said.  
“I didn’t mean at a dumb job while you’re in college, I mean when you’re a professor. Landing tenure is competitive. Being competitive means putting yourself out there. You never do that!” Daphne said.  
“Why should I? Dan knows he’s an ass. He enjoys it. He feels its his God given right to be an ass,” Oliver said.  
“Well, he’s wrong. He’s wrong about so many things. They all are. And you, you never stand up for what you believe around anybody,” Daphne said.  
“I don’t have to. Wrong doesn’t get any more right if you yell at it. What am I supposed to be doing, exactly?” Oliver said.  
“Lord knows, I don’t know. Do what you want. But you’re not who I thought you were. You’re so smart, and so open minded. It was so refreshing when I first met you, talking to someone who didn’t have to check with their mama, their daddy, a Baptist or Methodist preacher, or “The 700 Club” before they made up their mind on who to vote for, or how they lived their lives. But what good does it do you or anybody else if you can’t even tell a jerk like Dan to go to Hell?” Daphne said.  
“Is that what you’d do, if you were me?” Oliver said.  
“Damn right I would. If I were from up North and nobody knew me, and I knew I would never see this place or any of them after college, I would tell them just how I felt. You don’t know how much you’ve got going for you,” Daphne said.  
“Daph….it’s not that simple,” Oliver said. “maybe my parents are more tolerant in some ways, but not in others. I didn’t grow up being able to just say how I feel, either.”  
“I see that now!” she said nastily, and he was stung that she would snipe when he was trying to connect.  
“I guess I’m sorry I’m not the man you would be if you were me,” Oliver said.  
The angry tension between them burst. Daphne laughed.  
“That doesn’t make any sense!” she said.  
“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Oliver admitted wryly, implying that it was how she felt, so she had originated it.  
“Maybe that’s all a woman wants a man to be, deep down,” Daphne said. “the person she’s not brave enough to be.”  
“That’s bleak,” Oliver said.  
“I just wonder sometimes. I mean, with my mom, she’s a totally different person when my dad isn’t around. So vivid, witty, and funny. A distinct person apart from him. When he’s around, she diminishes. But I can tell that apart of her really admires him. Admires this freedom men have, that they get to show when they’re angry, or when they think they’re right. I don’t know….do I make any sense?” Daphne said.  
“I guess. I mean, my dad worked so much. But, he was this presence. I always felt like my mom’s perfectionism and anxiety was a way of pleasing him, and keeping him….at bay somehow,” Oliver said.  
“That’s funny. I always figured Jewish people would have happier families than Protestants,” Daphne said.  
“Why?” Oliver laughed.  
“I don’t know. Just what I always thought,” Daphne said.  
“We’re all just people, Daph,” Oliver said. “Sorry to disappoint you.”  
“No, no. You don’t. Sometimes, you’re just so damn contained, it’s like you don’t really care,” Daphne said. “I guess it just gets on my nerves. But, I’m over it. Do you want to go back to the hostel? I could use a nap.”  
By this time, they had been taking in the carnival for a few hours. Oliver found himself more fascinated than he had expected, but a little creeped out by being surrounded by disguises. If they went back to the hostel, maybe he could catch up with Willem. Maybe they would talk some more, about literature and poetry. Maybe they could hike back to the falls, and swim again. Maybe they would kiss once more, naked, every part of their bodies touching, and perhaps this time they would not stop.  
At the very least, maybe he could pull up his favorite internet porn site and jack off in the restroom.  
He had basically been living off his credit card since his last mall job had ended abruptly, and if his parents ever actually investigated the charges and found, for instance, NastyBoys, Male Icon or HookUpBoy .com listed as monthly expenses, he couldn’t imagine what would happen. His father really hated gays. Oliver relived memories of his father railing about recent pushes for reform in, for instance, employee health benefits and adoption as if the same sex couples seeking their civil rights were some kind of con artists trying to work the system. He might have cloaked his bigotry in the language of his profession, as if he were just talking about legal probabilities, but his vehemence on the subject was heatedly ugly. As for his mother, her objections seemed looser, based on the idea that it was something people could grow out of if they tried. Whenever the subject came up Oliver heard a shallow pity that he could tell would strain and break if the object of it weren’t “trying hard enough to help themselves”.  
Every time Oliver took his erect cock in hand, looking at naked men, men having sex, or summoned fantasies of them he put himself into a certain state where he forgot for a moment whatever objections to his desire existed. The minute he was done, the bliss wore of and the shame kicked in. He couldn’t tell anyone he was like this. He couldn’t be like this. His parents might scoff with their dinner guests and other friends about how backwards conservatives were, but that was politics-their personal morals were conservative when it came to homosexuals. Still, he felt how he felt about the boy he had just met, and it was more intense than he felt for his girlfriend.  
He decided he would avoid Willem. He wouldn’t go back to the hostel.  
“Let’s find a place in town. I’m a little sick of those beds,” he said.  
“Agree! I mean, I guess places like that are always minimalist, right?” Daphne said.  
“Minimalist, Daph, not Soviet gulag,” Oliver said.  
Daphne laughed. Once again, she enjoyed his Yankee wit. Never mind she had so recently called him a coward. They so rarely fought, they both scrambled to make up, smooth thing over, and forget what happened at once whenever they did.  
Daphne and Oliver found a bookstore/café that also rented a few rooms on the second floor. They were both charmed by the muted sunlight and the shelves of books whose covers and pages spoke various languages.  
“Ooh, Elena Ferrante in Italian!!” Daphne said.  
“Should I be afraid?” Oliver said.  
“Where do you get this idea that the Neapolitan novels are for angry feminists?” Daphne said, and hugged an Italian language copy of ‘My Brilliant Friend’.  
Oliver smiled. Maybe he should propose to Daphne. They were in Europe, in spring, just a few miles from the Alps. It couldn’t be more perfect.  
“Do you want to ask about the rooms?” She asked.  
Oliver took a deep breath of the sharp, vivifying scent of coffee, and said, “A few minutes.”  
He and Daphne continued to browse the shelves. Familiar cover art, like the iconic covers of The Great Gatsby leapt out at him, but the words, of course, were different. Once a friend had told him that tourists always find something woefully, banally familiar, like a KFC, and get so excited to see a bit of home in new surroundings. They had both laughed-“What was the point? How lame.” But that’s exactly what he was doing, with books.  
He found himself on an aisle that ended at the shop window, which shed sunshine onto the floor in a hot square patch of light. Oliver looked out onto the street.  
Across the street from the shop, a couple of masked carnival goers stood outside a florist’s shop with elaborate displays of flowers and masks. The girl wore a white dress like a winter bride or a ballerina portraying Giselle, and her companion wore black. They both wore the long nosed, vulture like mask of the plague doctor, whose entire body must be protected from the sores and fluids of those he treated. The girl was obviously caught up in the merriment of the day, dancing around the boy like a child playing keep away with another, teasing and carefree. She seemed to be Freedom itself, a nymph that had eluded him like the daughter of the river god always did Pan in classical myth.  
The boy in black removed his mask. The streets were narrow. Oliver could so clearly see his face. His face was timeless, androgynously beautiful in its symmetry. The regal nose, sensual lips, and green eyes like a secret pool in a forest could belong to a man or a woman, but there was a certain smoldering confidence in his face that was startlingly masculine. His beauty only appeared delicate at first glance. He was angelic-disturbingly beautiful. Beauty like that could only herald death or ecstasy. All day, Oliver had wandered amongst masks with no expression, carved, painted, and decorated to form only a vague impression that they were looking at those who regarded them. Finally, a face. And such a face. The face of a young god meant to be torn into pieces and mourned by priests and virgins. He was so beautiful, and it simply couldn’t be ignored or explained away. Tension gripped him, he willed the beautiful young man in his carnival clothes not to put the mask on again.  
Keys dangled in his face, dangling.  
“We have a room!” Daphne said excitedly.  
“What?” Oliver said. “Oh. That’s great!”  
“You okay? What did you see out there?” Daphne asked.  
“Oh, just some cool masks,” Oliver said.  
“Oh. You took your’s off,” Daphne said.  
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said, and felt around for it in his pocket. It was in his back pocket.  
“The owner was telling me some great stories. He said that all the beast stuff started back in the days of the witch trials. They thought if they gave the beast a little love he would drive away all the witches and werewolves for them,” Daphne said. “I had no idea this area had so many creepy stories! You’re right, it’s all a little interesting.”  
“I kind of thought I pissed you off,” Oliver said.  
“No, you’re just a little too serious sometimes. But it’s adorable, I promise,” she said, and squeezed his butt.  
“Daph…” he said, and grabbed for her hand. This was their schtick-she was the randy southern socialite and he was her brainy, drily witty boy from ‘up north’. Oliver played along, while trying to keep his eye on the angelic boy with dark, romantically tousled hair and a Greek sculpture’s face. He had taken off his black jacket, he was now wearing only a white shirt, the girl had put on his jacket. His mask was still off. But, he turned his back! He was walking away!  
“I think I’m going for a walk. Why don’t you go lay down?” he said.  
“Why don’t you lay down with me?” Daphne said.  
He felt annoyed, then guilty, but mostly just anxious to catch up with the boy across the street. ‘And for what exactly?’ he asked himself.  
Just to see more of his face.  
“I won’t be long. Seriously. You need your rest,” Oliver said.  
“Um…I guess,” she said.  
Oliver kissed her cheek and hurried out of the bookstore. The music of a violin began. It wasn’t the music of the floats, but a lone instrument being played by a man in the vest, frock coats, and lamentable breeches of the 18th century, as so many of the carnival goers were dressed, his outfit rendered in a green and purple reminiscent of Mardi Gras. Just that morning, he had explained that the American Mardi Gras was their country’s answer to traditions like this. That morning, he had been a different man, who thought it was possible to put his real feelings aside when he needed to return to his ‘real life’. Now those feelings were leading him down the winding, narrow cobblestone streets between old buildings, following the boy’s lithe body in his flouncy shirt, his bouncy chestnut brown hair. Oliver’s brow knitted and stomach knotted in hopes of just another glimpse of his green eyes and full lips. The music of the violin faded, people walked between them and his anxiety piqued like one of the violin’s shrill notes, forbidden pitches that had once been called satanic. When he glimpsed that the boy was still in sight, he calmed down a bit.  
After a while, they reached a brick wall at the end of street that wasn’t celebrating. There were no masked and costumed revelers, no clowning Beast mascots making as if to pounce at onlookers. The music had faded, too. Beyond the wall was a river, brown and strewn with fallen leaves.  
The boys stopped, the wall behind him.  
“You’re following me,” he said.  
“You let me,” Oliver said.  
The boy smiled, and it was not innocent. It was hungry.  
“What’s your name?” Oliver asked, though his throat was suddenly hoarse.  
“Elio,” said the beautiful boy, and Oliver felt it take wings in his mind, multiply and swarm: ElioElioElioElio……….


	4. Chapter 4

Elio   
“Elio,” Oliver said, savoring the music of it, the long A sound, the valley of ‘l’s, tumbling down a river into a waterfall of the long ‘e’ sound on the ‘i’, as it crashed into the o. The o gave it an inevitable completion, the song’s softly dying note. Elio could tell Oliver enjoyed saying his name.  
“Yes,” he said, a bit bemused at this big indifferently dressed clod who kept saying his name. It was him. Just that morning Elio had seen all that big body wet and unclad, the thick body hair streaming with cold water, the fair skin gone rosy from exertion, and his big penis exposed as shamelessly as an animals, wine pink and erect from his kiss with another man. Hidden now, that peachy, round, high ass. He was in good shape, this one, and the baggy college sweatshirt and khaki hiking shorts was like Clark Kent’s glasses, a disguise among the mortals. His eyes were on Elio, and they were a hot dark blue with lust tempered only by the beginning of doubt. He could break away at any moment, how could Elio stop him?  
Elio took a step forward. Oliver flinched away, but then caught himself. He was both guarded and totally obvious, with one swallow Elio could see him ‘nailing his courage to the sticking place’ daring to be still and let himself be touched. Those seemed to be the terms, that Elio would admiringly touch him like a museum patron daring to reach over the velvet rope, and Oliver would be the statue being fondled. Elio touched his face, running his fingertips over Oliver’s long rusty gold eyelashes, his striking slope of his nose. Later, when he found out his ancestry was a jumble of German, Russian Jewish, and Ukrainian, he wouldn’t be surprised at all, he had tellingly stern features no one ever noticed because of his fair coloring, and their own expectations of WASPiness. But he had Viking girth, that strong, hairy, bearish body Elio had known he could love at first sight, and a certain European Semitic boom to his voice that would have, in another time and place, sounded melodic and lovely curled around the Mesopotamian lilt of Hebrew or the earthy, phlegmy delivery of Yiddish. But, for all that, English was the only language he spoke well enough for wit, spontaneous romanticism, important confessions, or quoting literature and poetry. It was the flip side of globalization and diaspora-we gain a new life and lose the languages our voices are made for, children born never to know them, aping the ‘Like, ya knows’ of reality tv stars or slurs and slang of rappers for their lingua franca.   
But, that was later.  
All Elio had heard Oliver say was his name. He liked his name in his voice, that accentless American voice, so deep, so masculine, a Hollywood voice, a movie cowboy voice. He ran his fingertips over his strong jaw, feeling the Braille of his stubble, and then his neck. Mmm, his neck, the fluttery jugular beneath his skin, that vital vein, the blood there was fragrant, like the body of a small animal cowering among the dead leaves, letting him pass, hoping he would not give chase. The neck-that was dangerous but promising territory, better leave it alone. He let his hands drift along Oliver’s neck, and torso, confirming what he had seen that morning, that Oliver’s body was firm and fit, Michelangelo’s David warm and flesh and blood instead of cold marble. Okay, maybe he had some folds of softness, but still a masculine dimension to his musculature which Elio couldn’t boast of. He still had the birdy limbs and soft belly of a child, though he was 18. Feeling bold, he even stroked his ass. The music of the violin began again.  
“There it is again!” Oliver said.  
Elio kissed his neck, just a brief graze of his lips.  
“The music doesn’t stop,” Elio said.  
“There’s nothing like Carnival where I live, certainly not where I’m from,” Oliver said. “I always figured people who lived in cities with these great celebrations must get used to it. It’s all for the tourists.”  
“Not at all. There is so much the tourists will never see. They couldn’t understand,” Elio said.  
“What wouldn’t they understand?” Oliver asked.  
“Why the Carnival is held in the first place,” Elio said. “To appease the old forest gods, the Horned God, the Beast, so that he will protect the village from-  
“The wolves,” Oliver interrupted. “The strega, the maladanti, the varcolaci-the shapeshifters.”  
“Very good. You didn’t get that from Lonely Planet. You do your research,” Elio said. “Those are all good words. Well, there was rather an epidemic of them in medieval times, and of course, they were questioned, and burned. And the appeals to the beast became apart of the Carnival. Let the beast chase the witches, or whatever they were, out of the valley, was the rationale. Is it what you hoped to find?”  
“I didn’t come for all this, per se. I just wanted to get away,” Oliver said.  
“You’re just here to be somewhere else besides where you were?” Elio said. “Why?”  
“Isn’t it the same as wearing a mask?” Oliver said.  
“But you’re not wearing one,” Elio pointed out, and reached up, leaned in, and kissed Oliver.   
“I can’t do this,” Oliver said, and pulled away.  
Elio smiled. It was all he had to do really, because they both knew it wasn’t true, and he had barely protested.  
“Come with me,” Elio said.  
“Daphne….” Oliver said.  
“She isn’t here. She isn’t coming. You know that. You left her,” Elio said.  
“You’re the beast, aren’t you?” Oliver said. “shaved, but no less relentless in your pursuit.”   
Elio laughed. “Soon, we must mourn and fast. Carnival is the last chance to be hungry and to be filled, to lust and pursue the object of your desire. And the masks keep us all guiltless, if not innocent. But, we should get off the streets soon. Leave them to the beast and maladanti and the benandanti, who I’m sure you gleaned from your research can change their shapes, take to the air in the form of mists like the helpers of alchemists, and enter dreams. At night, we surrender the streets to the beast, as he drives the wolves back to the forests,” Elio said, whispering all this into Oliver’s ear, and against his neck, the words pouring into the other man as Elio touched him wherever he liked. His resolve, pitiful as it was, to return to this Daphne had failed altogether as Elio whispered to him and ran his hand under the sweatshirt and stroked that hairy belly, delved his hand into the cleft of his ass, but through his clothes, cupped his crotch and stroked him, feeling him harden.   
“Oh? And where do we go, when it’s dark?” Oliver said. He was playing along admirably, acting as if this encounter did not excite him, although Elio could see his blush and smell his sweat, feel his penis become hard and firm beneath the zipper of his shorts, hear a slight hitch in his breath. It was just as he surmised the situation when he had watched him with another man at the waterfall. This was forbidden to him-so of course, he was reaching for it. And today was the day for it.   
Elio didn’t answer him. His family would be gathering for the day, in the palazzo in the city rather than the villa. He wanted to see how far he could take this thing.   
“I suppose you’ll go back to Daphne,” Elio said.  
As Elio had expected, Oliver said, “Daphne! I forgot about her….I keep letting myself do that. I need to go back to the bookstore where we first met.”  
“All right,” Elio said. “We’ll walk there together.”  
They left the secluded little street. Elio hadn’t just been winding Oliver up, soon those in the know really would be leaving the streets for private parties and dinners. Some admitted tourists, for a price, some were held in ancient palazzos that were still privately owned and were only for invited guests. The streets were still full with those wandering in costume for the sheer novelty of not being recognizeable, dressed like clownish aristocrats of a bygone age, or the pastiche of one, taking photos by cathedrals or fountains, war memorials, or even simply street signs and lamps.  
Marzia tore out of an alley, running, her face distressed, just as the bookstore Oliver had left to see the violinist dressed in the garish colors of revelry and abandon.  
“Elio! We have to go!” she said.  
“What’s wrong?” he said, putting his arms first to her shoulders and then fussing with her thick, curly dark hair. Oliver, to his credit, looked concern. Good cowboy, worried about the “little lady”. Marshall Dillon and all the other tv re run cowboys would be proud, and Elio was impressed.  
“Did someone hurt you? Do you need help?” he asked Marzia, though he didn’t know her, but she was slow to trust strangers. She looked only at Elio, and said, “They’re in the city. They know it’s forbidden. We have to go now.”  
“Of course,” he said soothingly. “We’ll go.”  
He glanced peripherally at Oliver. He was concerned, but also excluded. Elio’s connection to Marzia was like music. Of course cicadas hidden in the hedges, or a rainstorm or thunder had its own appeal, but music was conceived to be arresting and transportive. It was supernatural. The connection he felt to Marzia, the only benandanti born in the same year as him, whom he communicated with without words when they were wolves and when they were human, whom instinct led him to time and time again, was supernatural music.   
Still, he didn’t want to change his plan.  
“I have to go. But you will meet me, at midnight?” Elio asked.  
He knew that he would know where-the wall by the river, where they had kissed, where else? Tourist though he was, he caught on quick.  
Elio left with Marzia. The humans had hours of precious daylight left to wander behind their disguises without needing to be afraid, but the two of them were in danger.


	5. Chapter 5

Oliver  
Midnight. In fairy tales it was where the magic ended, but Oliver had never been so sure and hopeful of anything in a long time. Somehow, he’d known that Elio meant to meet him at the city wall, where it ended at the muddy shore of the river, where they had kissed. He’d dismissed the swim with Willem, and then what he really wanted had confronted him once more, in fuller force. Rather than guilty about his plans, to meet Elio, he felt energized and happy. He returned to the bookstore, where Daphne was sitting in the seat at the window in their room above the salesfloor, and café. The carnival goers milling about in their elaborate costumes and masks looked like moving figurines in a model village. The village itself, of weathered brick and ancient stone, bearded vines clinging to their walls, looked picturesque and quaint, but Elio and his sister or friend had departed in some kind of distress. Oliver had been concerned, but even in a place like this a festival would always have rowdy incidents. He hoped that the girl in the white dress was fine now.  
“You lost your mask! I guess it wasn’t my best idea,” Daph said.  
“It just wasn’t me,” he said.  
“A mask never is, Ollie,” Daphne said.  
“You were so psyched about the carnival, sure you don’t want to look around some more?” Oliver asked.  
“I’ve been having a good time talking to Fernando. The owner? He knows so much about this place. I was worried you’d embarrass somebody asking questions about those old legends, but it seems like the town embraces it,” Daphne said. “He claims his grandmother was a witch!”  
“I knew you’d get into it. You have this morbid, southern Gothic side, admit it,” Oliver said.  
“Well, sure, but I didn’t want us to look like ugly Americans!” Daphne said.  
“You could never be ugly, Daph,” Oliver said shyly. Why did he feel like he was asking her out for the first time? It was the damndest thing-he did feel something for Daphne, but only when she was around and within reach. He couldn’t see following her through a crowd, the shrill song of a violin punctuating his frantic need to find her, and feeling the need to kiss her when they finally found each other.  
Still, he sat beside her on the window seat and kissed her now. It was sweet, and not cursory but neither of them lingered long.  
“Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?” She asked.  
“I’m just taking it all in. This trip, it was just spring break, you know? I wanted to get away. I needed to get away, really,” Oliver said.  
“I know. Losing your job was hard,” Daphne said consolingly, rubbing his shoulder.  
“I hate being dependent on my family,” he said.  
“You’ll land on your feet when we get back to the States. Just enjoy this,” Daphne said.  
“I am,” he said.  
“Fernando closes up the shop in a couple of hours, he wants us to have dinner with him,” Daphne said.  
“You two got pretty close, pretty fast,” Oliver said.  
“Ha! He’s 65 years old and gay, Oliver. You don’t have any competition, trust me,” Daphne said.  
They laughed. “Daph, this isn’t that gaydar thing girls claim to have, is it? How do you know?”  
“Uh, because his lover Claude stopped by and they kissed on the mouth and said, ‘Ciao, see you at dinner’, maybe? Claude’s about twenty years younger than Fernando, don’t gawp at them. Claude said he can get us into a carnival ball, if you want. He’s a maskmaker. Most of the town is probably wearing his work, and he gets invited everywhere this time of year. Like, the Philip Treacy of masks, basically,” Daphne said.  
“Who’s Philip Treacy?” Oliver asked.  
“Babe! He makes those fascinators everyone wears to the royal weddings!” Daphne said.  
“Oh, yeah, sure, that Philip Treacy,” Oliver said sarcastically.  
Daphne laughed and kissed his cheek. They felt so happy, but there was a difference. One was chocolate, sweet and buoyant, the other was wine, heady and intoxicating. Elio was wine.  
Daphne chattered a bit more, as Oliver relived how frustrating it had been to pursue Elio through the winding paths between people. He could barely see the intricate and fantastical details of the costumes and masks, a glimpse of Elio’s shoulder and his chestnut brown hair bouncing as he walked were more precious.  
Precious. He had so quickly felt precious to him. Then, finally, kissing him and being touched by him…Midnight. What would happen at midnight? He imagined they would go somewhere private, once Elio was done celebrating the regional holiday with his friends, perhaps his family. The memory of Elio’s touch and Oliver’s strong, instant desire for him melded with the acts of pornography, and he kissed Daphne with more passion than either of them were accustomed to, lately. They kissed each other in passing, in greeting, or, if one of them slept over at the other’s place, they kissed good morning. But, this was different.  
Daphne broke away first.  
“So, vacation sex is a thing?” she asked..  
“Totally, definitely a thing,” Oliver said. Daphne kissed him again, wound her arms around his neck, and sat on his lap.

Elio  
“They didn’t hurt me,” Marzia said.  
Only the most intimate guests had arrived, people truly dear to Elio’s aunt, Zelenia, who was La Donna, the Lady, of their pack, the priestess of an old worship of the earth. It would have been Elio’s mother, Annella, if she had the talent to transform. She had only her intuition, and so her sister was chosen.  
They were all in the drawing room. Elio, the old alchemist Rainier Wolfstan, and the Benandanti prince, Balthasar Luna, stood around Marzia, anxious to know what had happened during her encounter with the Maladanti.  
“It was the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me,” she said. “I was just walking, not walking anywhere certain, really, just waiting to see you again. I was standing on the little bridge over the river, merely looking out at the day. There was a group of boys, and I had seen them but they were nothing special. I could even feel them looking at me, but there was so much else to be interested in. Then, something changed. I felt not looked at, but looked into. As if I had been emptied out and filled with someone’s gaze, and I couldn’t move. And I saw all sorts of horrible things. All the things I’ve ever been afraid of, my whole life. Have you ever been asleep, and woken up unable to breathe or move? It was like that, but as if it happened and still I dreamed. And the dreams were horrible.”  
Balthasar stepped forward, to put his arms chastely around her and draw her to his chest like a big brother. Elio didn’t feel too territorial. Balthasar had alluring sienna skin, dark hair, and smelled like sage. He was traveling with Rainier, and they made quite an odd couple, as Rainer was grey haired and eagle eyed-his kindness was a surprise because outwardly he looked like a child eating villain in a Grimm brothers tale. The Alchemist and the Prince, and the latter’s gallant manner and excessive handsomeness was somewhat marred by certain ill and hungry look around his eyes.  
“I think it’s best not to say anything to Zelenia yet,” Balthasar said.  
“That’s absurd,” Elio said, and by the relish he took in it, he saw he had been more piqued than he realized by another man’s hands on Marzia. And yet, he had invited Oliver to the palazzo. Well, he would collect him at the river and they would retrace the path of Oliver’s pursuit of him, and then arrive at the carnival ball. Humans could attend, in fact the legend went that all the events of carnival had begun as a deterrent to the Maladanti, so that humans would be off the street at night, safe from their hunger. And yet, they had trespassed in the village during the day. So much for regional lore.  
“Hear me out,” Balthasar said, as if he knew that Elio would have an objection. Elio was pacified by this, acknowledgement of him as an adult, rather than being dismissed or chastised.  
“Listening,” Elio said.  
“Whatever we do now decides the future of our peace,” Balthasar said.  
“They aren’t supposed to be here. Clearly, they don’t care,” Marzia said.  
“If Zelenia is made aware of this, and she moves against them, it will be precisely what they desire: an aggressive action,” Balthasar said.  
“And if we ignore it?” Elio said.  
“No one’s ignoring anything. Stay here. I’m going to take a walk,” Balthasar said.  
“We’ll stay here. Elio, play something,” Rainier said. Balthasar left the room. Elio sat down at the piano.  
Marzia spoke. “I wonder what he’s going to do,” she said, when he was out of ear shot, clearly gone from the drawing room.  
“Perhaps give them a little scare,” Elio said.  
“How can that be anything but aggressive?” Marzia said.  
“Because no one knows he’s here. And this isn’t his domain in the same way it is my aunt’s,” Elio said.  
“This is supposed to be a holiday. What if they hurt a human?” she said.  
“It won’t happen,” he said. It was the Benandanti’s ancient duty to protect humans from Maladanti.  
Elio played the first movement of Beethoven’s Appasionata: foreboding and darkly shimmering music. When he was done the Alchemist told them about Vienna as Beethoven had known it, as he himself had known it. He had been alive for a very long time and had a lot of stories, but was never doddering or irrelevant.  
The whole house, like Elio, seemed to be waiting for midnight. Mafalda and Manfredi, their servants from their permanent home at the Villa in the countryside, had accompanied them to the city for the occasion, for the task of overseeing the servants preparing the house for the carnival ball. People were up and down the halls like ants in a hill, and rather than the cultured tranquility usually produced by the house full of arrestingly beautiful old art, there was a hum of anticipation. Elio was still young-the incident with the Maladanti had been frightening, but someone-Balthasar-had repaired his world by going out to address it. It made him feel both reassured and somewhat useless. He was eighteen and it felt like he should be doing something big and grandly useful, only then would he be worthy of his family and the beauty they lived in, if he was protecting them somehow.  
After the piano piece was over, he went out to the garden. In the long reflecting pool floated the reflections of old statues of even older gods, their marble bodies strikingly white against the verdure of the garden.  
Elio’s aunt was sitting on a stone bench. She approached him. She had the same dark hair, green eyes, and Franco-Italian features as Elio and his mother. She wasn’t dressed for carnival, but in flowy linen clothes, a tunic and pants, as if she was at a meditation retreat.  
“Was that your Appassionata, I heard?” she said.  
“Only the first movement,” he said.  
“You play it in an impassioned, imploring sort of way. It can be very somber, but in your hands its yearning,” she said. “A question addressed to the great void.”  
“It can never be a happy piece,” he said.  
“Are you unhappy?” she asked.  
Elio felt suddenly very distressed that she would think so. “Of course I’m happy,” he said.  
“Your parents and I decided that it would be best for you to live with me, but sometimes, I wonder if I have been what you needed,” she said.  
“You think too much,” he said, and kissed her forehead.  
“You’re probably right,” she said, with a loving smile, but it didn’t match her eyes.  
It wasn’t the first time he had picked up that she was lonely. Many people needed her, but that was different than being able to confide in someone, and lean on their strength, someone to enjoy.  
“Have you chosen a mask?” Elio asked.  
“Claude is still dreaming it,” she said.  
“You’re so last minute! And so is he,” Elio said.  
“I like surprises,” she countered. Elio thought of the Maladanti. Perhaps not that kind of surprise. He hoped that for the rest of this night, his aunt would have nothing to worry about.  
“Marzia!” Zelenia said, as Marzia crossed the garden, walking towards them, in her dress as white as the statues around them.  
Marzia kissed Zelenia’s cheeks, and then Zelenia said, “I’ll leave you two alone.”  
“You should rest before tonight,” Marzia said.  
“Sweet girl,” Zelenia said.  
“Are you okay?” Elio asked. “I’m sorry I left you.”  
“You were following your passion. It is what we all expect of you,” Marzia said.  
“Don’t. I never thought there could be any danger. Marzia-if anything were to happen to you…” Elio said. “You know, you are more myself than I am.”  
“The Brontes will get you everywhere that flattery will not,” she said, smiling, relenting. They both loved books, nature, music, and a certain peaceful pace in life, punctuated by passion and freedom.  
“I’m so, so sorry,” he said.  
“Soon the moon will be full. Soon, we will run again, in our ancient grove. And we won’t need these costumes, and these masks,” she said.  
Elio rubbed her shoulders, which were left exposed by the diaphanous dress, and then kissed them.  
“No,” she said.  
“Why not?” he asked.  
“What about your new friend? He’s the same boy from the waterfall. The big one,” she said.  
Elio smiled. “Yes! I found him in town. At Fernando’s bookstore,” he said, marveling at the grand coincidence. Fernando was Benandanti, as was his lover, Claude, the maskmaker.  
“He always takes in stray humans,” she said. “And it is lucky for you that he does, isn’t it?”  
“I felt so…connected to him,” Elio said.  
“Perhaps he’s the One,” Marzia said. Soulmates weren’t theoretical in their world-it was believed that everyone had one and finding them was the spontaneous culmination of destiny. It just happened, and was always meant to. Elio felt a jittery anxious recognition at the idea. It was what he had hoped. Someone else saw it,too.  
“I love you,” Elio said. “Unless you’d prefer Balthasar Luna.”  
Marzia laughed. “He’s perfect, isn’t he? That hair, those eyes, that skin. And he’s more of a gentleman than you. But, he looks right through me. To him, I’m a child.”  
“Go up to his room, when the ball is over. As Lord Byron said, ‘When a girl of eighteen comes to your room at all hours, there is but one way.’ And he’s certainly Byronic, that one,” Elio said.  
Marzia slapped his arm. Hard. “I want a better fate than Claire Claremont. Fair enough?”  
“And duly noted,” he said.  
More guests arrived, their people, Elio’s family, some dressed already in the elaborate get up of the Ancien Regime. Elio hugged and kissed them, aunts, uncles, cousins, people who asked after his mother or asked whose son he was, they recognized themselves in his faces but had quite forgotten who he was. Their 18th century hats, masks, and wigs made them rather hard to place, too. Matteo and Chiara arrived, and a few other young people who were like he and Marzia, able to transform into wolves. Several families in the village were descended from Benandanti, from those who had once met in secret sabbaths, led by a Donna like Zelenia was to them now, until they had come to the attention of the church and been branded as witches. In confession they could not help but tell the truth-that that they were werewolves, yes, and witches of a sort, but feared God in their own way, and believed He had made them as they were to protect humanity from the others, the Maladanti.  
Elio’s mother arrived, dressed in a maroon silk gown that looked like a costume from a period drama about Versailles. She could have been one of their Renaissance ancestors taken by the witchhunters.  
“Ou est Papa?” Elio asked.  
His mother kissed him, and he felt simple, good, and happy again, and she was the most beautiful woman in the world, the center of the world, Star of the Sea. She smelled like rosemary and a hint of mint.  
“You know he hates to dress up! He is skipping all of the ‘hullaballoo’ as he calls it,” Annella said.  
“Is that some American word? I think he likes to stump us,” Elio said.  
“Where is your mask?” Annella asked.  
‘Where is your mask,’ ‘Ah, who did your mask’-these questions would serve as greetings for the rest of the night. It was the same every year.  
Oliver  
Oliver looked at Daphne. They were both more satisfied than they’d been in a long time, and neither of them knew exactly what had changed.  
“Shower?” she suggested. The shower was small and cramped, but Oliver shrugged and said “Okay.”  
“That was amazing,” she said.  
Oliver kissed her neck, and nuzzled into the nook of her neck and shoulder. He wanted Elio, but he had made love to Daphne because it wasn’t midnight. The day was turning so, so slowly into night. He was beginning to feel confused, and sad again. What was he doing? They kissed in the shower as the hot water poured steadily but not plentifully on their shoulders, head, and back, refreshing in their sweaty state. He hoped she would blow him, and knew in his secret heart that he would imagine her lips were Elio’s. Elio whom he had just met, Elio who was an atom bomb, a lightning flash that disintegrated everything Oliver knew.  
Half of him wanted to take Daphne against the wall of the shower as if he had just come home from war, the other wanted to cry. He could feel his father over his shoulder, his father calling a rival or, worse, someone he felt was beneath him, that word, that slur, and the way the shame had settled on Oliver. At one of his many indifferent part time retail jobs in college, he had neither joined in or definitively protested when people disparaged two of his co-workers, young black gay men. He wondered if he didn’t think he was anything like them because they were a different race, and hated that suspicion, as much as he hated his other fears about himself. Who was he? What was he? He wished he knew. Everything had been simple, kissing Elio, and for the first time in his life he knew that he selflessly loved the entire human race, and belonged within and to it.  
Fernando closed the bookstore, and he and Daphne accompanied him to the house he shared with Claude. Oliver had taken drama classes in high school, and as they made their way to the dining room he felt like he was in a props closet. The effluvia of Claude’s trade was all over the house, higgledy-piggledy: dressmaker’s dolls wearing big Marie Antoinette gowns and wigs, or wig stands made out of packing peanut material molded into the shape of human heads, wearing masks festooned with feathers and crystal tears like chandeliers, velvet and silk masks somewhat different than the clown faces of the masks they had seen on people on the street. For some reason, it made sense that the carnival goers would be more covered up in the day than at night. At night they would not be out in the open, but at private parties around friends, more or less. Obscuring their face, amongst people they knew, was a game, in a different way than passing amongst strangers.  
Oliver assumed that the woman, middle aged and round but sort of earthily sultry with stark, severely think honey highlights in her brown hair, was a housekeeper but turned out to be Claude’s cousin Elettra. Her son, who looked just like the kid from the R.E.M video “The End of the World As We Know It” was hanging around with his hair in his face and his eyes glued to a tablet watching a hip hop video.  
“I know that one!” Daphne said, and tried to get him to Whip Nae Nae with her. He snickered at her attempts, but not unkindly.  
“Where are you from in America?” he asked.  
“Virginia,” she said.  
“I don’t know that one. I know California, New York, Hawaii, Alaska, and Montana.”  
“What’s so memorable about Montana?” she asked.  
“Montana serves its purpose, Daph,” Oliver said.  
“What do they make in Virginia?” asked the boy.  
“Oh, you know, whatever, like anywhere. Ever seen those Geico commercials with the talking gecko?” she asked.  
“Nope!” he said.  
“Oh. They make those there. Dang-that’s all I got! Y’all even have car insurance in this country?” Daphne said.  
Again, Oliver felt that fondness for her that was only half of what it should be.  
“Caro!” Elettra called. “Try this!”  
Caro ran to the kitchen.  
Once Elettra had perfected the sauce, they sat down to dinner: Caro, Elettra, Daphne, Oliver, Fernando who was grey but enlivened with a joie de vivre and whimsy that reminded one of Roberto Benigni in “Life is Beautiful”, and Claude who was handsome but looked as if he never slept, judging by the circles under his eyes and his energy, a little jitterier than his lover’s. And lovers they were, who held hands under the table and teased each other.  
“Has he been telling you campfire stories?” Claude chastised Fernando.  
“They’re our heritage!” Fernando insisted.  
“Because everyone has a witch in their family tree, going back to the middle ages. Sure! Why don’t they excommunicate us all?” Elettra said.  
“You’re cutting it fine enough without bringing the family tree into the equation,” Fernando said.  
Elettra shook her fork at him, as if warning him off, giving him a fair chance before stabbing.  
“So, I’m confused, are the Benandanti witches or werewolves?” Oliver asked. Daph didn’t seem to mind, as she had in the first coffeeshop they tried. Her fear of being an ugly American in a foreign country must have been assuaged.  
“Both,” Caro said, with his mouth full. “They can leave their body and fly, they know spells and secret prayers to the old Roman goddess, Diana, and they can turn into wolves. Anything, to fight the bad ones. The other wolves. It’s how God made them. They thought I was one, but I guess I’m just weird.”  
“Caro, no! You are not strange at all! You can’t listen to anyone in this town!” Elettra said. She looked at Daphne and Oliver and said, “It’s those damn teachers. They hate a boy who actually likes to read. Because he knows more than them!”  
“I had that problem myself. It’ll sort itself out. Keep reading,” Oliver said.  
Caro looked shy, but nodded as if he promised to do just that.  
“So often the solution seems like the problem at first,” Claude said.  
“It’s why we should all just be able to do what we want,” Elettra said impassionedly.  
Daphne smiled, “I agree,” she said. She spoke for both of them. Clearly, when it was not the scene of this bright, mysterious holiday and all its lived mythology, this town was like any small town anywhere, with its narrow mental confines and the judgements they led to. He gathered that Elettra was a divorcee or runaway wife who lived as a widow, and Caro bore the infamy of her predicament and perhaps that of the two men, as well. He wanted to tell them that he understood.  
“They’re called the Lupus Dei. The Wolves of God. God made them as they are,” Caro said, although he was looking down at his plate, still shy.  
“We are all made as we are meant to be. Like a mask is made, like a costume is sewn. We are no different,” Claude said.  
“On this day, the Maladanti used to terrorize the village, before Lent. But, they were driven out, and so we celebrate with the Carnival of the Beast,” Fernando said.  
“Well, we’re really enjoying it. Too bad we can’t go to one of those balls you were telling me about,” Daphne said.  
“Of course you can. Wear anything you see,” Claude said, sweeping his hand to gesture at his creations.  
“And Ollie?” Daphne asked.  
“What is Cinderella without Prince Charming? We will find something for him,” Claude said.  
He worried that Daphne and her spontaneity would prevent him from meeting Elio at the wall by the river.


	6. Chapter 6

Daphne tried on various carnival costumes in Claude and Ferdinand's living room, which had a heavy three panelled mirror and a little stage beneath it. Claude's clients must use it as a changing room quite often. The two men and Elettra couldn't have been less interested in Daphne's body, and to her credit she wasn't being titillating towards Oliver. She could be in a romantic mood all week after they made love. But, her movements were suffused with innocent joy and she moved with an athletic command of her body-she played volleyball and softball, both of which she dismissed as 'typical.' Typical Virginia girl. Caro, who was at the age to be ogling girls, wasn't fascinated by her cotton bikini panties and t-shirt bra, either.  
Music played from her IPhone, "Take Me Back to New Orleans" by Cowboy Mouth. Daphne loved them, and they'd danced to Cowboy Mouth at a music festival once. After a few craft beers, Oliver forgot that he hated dancing. He knew that the band's music represented to Daphne one of the few times she had gotten him to play along. But the song itself reminded him of Elio, now. Wanting him was like missing a whole city, missing home.   
"I feel like Kirsten Dunst in Marie Antoinette!" Daphne giggled. "Elettra, do you dress up?"  
"This is my costume," Elettra said, waving a Vanna White hand across herself as if to say, 'What you see is what you get.'  
She and Daphne shared a laugh. Elettra had that frankness of the women Daphne had always known, earthy, wry, honest, hilarious, fiery. Deep down Oliver knew he was going to live the rest of his life in the American South or somewhere like it, hot and old, slow paced and full of interesting people. These places were paradoxically old fashioned, but lovable like a difficult child who just needs some affection. Where he was from was so artificial you could bite the wallpaper just to taste something. He'd felt closer to his grandparents than his parents-their accents, their Yiddish, their grumpy old person benign eccentricities-but they were gone now and he had to admit he'd been drifting a bit. Until he looked into Elio's eyes and found the fullest expression of what he had felt at the waterfall with Willem, Willem with whom he had held back and was forgetting already.  
Elettra went to the kitchen, and Oliver followed.   
"Dinner was wonderful," he said  
"Grazie!" She said. "And thank you for your kindness to Genaro."  
"Genaro? Is that his real name?" Oliver said. Of course he hadn't thought the boy's proper name was Caro-that would be like naming a kid Sweetheart.   
"For my husband. He insisted," she said. "Caro is too smart for school, but I wonder if he is not..shell shocked, from when we lived with his father. He drinks."  
"Sorry to hear that," Oliver said.   
"Sometimes I wish I had never seen his face. But then..." She said.   
"Then there would be no Caro," he said.  
"Si, si. But even more than that, sometimes, you must know how things will go with someone. You must begin to know the end," Elettra said.   
"Like a book, or a song," Oliver said.   
"Exactly!" She said and gave his face a playful squeeze. "At least we have our beginning, and our end. To never know? That would be worse than all he did."   
"I really do understand," he said.  
"You are in new love. It’s not Daphne," she said.   
"How do you know?" He asked.   
"Fernando isn't wrong, he just tells the same old stories, I don't want to hear it. But, he's right-here, our ancestors were witches, or whatever they were, and we feel such things in the air," Elettra said.   
"I can't just love this person. It would never go anywhere. But I can't stop thinking about them," Oliver said.   
"Then you must begin, and you mustn't stop until the end," Elettra said.  
Daphne was wearing a green velvet dress, and dancing with Caro to “Take Me Back to New Orleans.” She was such a happy person, a loving and warm person who ended up being the life of the party without seeking attention.   
“What is that, the music of the devil?” Fernando asked.  
“If the Devil is from New Orleans,” Daphne said.  
“She loves Cowboy Mouth, for a Virginia girl,” he said, to no one in particular. “Shouldn’t it be Carbon Leaf, Daph?” They were indie rock legends in Daphne’s home state.  
She just smiled, her eyes saying, ‘Whatever, this is how I’m feeling.’  
“Dance with me,” she urged, as the song changed to a raucous cover of the calypso song “Iko Iko”.  
Oliver shook his head, deferring.  
Elettra danced with her son, her Sophia Loren-esque body rippling shamelessly. Daphne headed over to Oliver.  
“You are a blast in a glass,” Oliver said.  
Daphne laughed. “Ugh, dad jokes and we don’t even have kids. I love you,” she said.  
He felt guilty. “Why don’t you go to this thing with Claude and Fernando? I want to rest a bit, I guess I’m coming down with a travel bug.”  
He expected Daphne to believe him. It wouldn’t be the first time he skipped something and she went. He basically hibernated during homecoming week, while she loved the games and parade and tailgating and all of that with her friends. Instead, she frowned and huffed.  
“What’s with you?” she said. “First you went on a hike alone, then you dashed off and left me at the bookstore, and now you want to skip the carnival ball Claude invited us to.”  
“You sprung the carnival on me. It was always your thing. As usual,” Oliver said.  
“If I didn’t plan things, we’d never do anything,” Daphne said. “And that’s fine, but you’ve been so despondent since your grandmother died.”  
“I have a right to be!” Oliver said.  
“Of course, of course. But I love you. You don’t see that I love you. You don’t let me in. I could help you if you let me. Is it because I’m not Jewish, you think I don’t understand? I know you have to pray for someone, when they die, for years. But you don’t have to be unhappy all that time,” Daphne said. “I know I never met your grandmother, but she wouldn’t want you to be unhappy for seven years. You can let yourself heal.”  
She stroked his chest, stroked the skin left exposed by his billowy blue shirt stroked his chest hair, the Magen David he always wore, as if trying to gently wear away the walls around his heart the way water wears down small stones, slowly and softly. He put his hand over her’s and moved her hand gently away, as gently as he could. He didn’t want to be touched, not by her, because it wouldn’t feel right to accept any more of her love. He had taken enough.   
“No, that’s not what I’m doing. I don’t know what to say. It’s not about religion-it’s something inside. I try to be happy. Most of the time, I’m not. I’m trying,” he said.  
“I think that’s called depression, Ollie. Can’t we just talk about that in a serious way? Don’t just shrug this off, please?” Daphne said.  
“I’m not depressed. Daph, please, don’t let me ruin things for you? Go out, and see everything?” Oliver said. “Have a good time?”  
“How am I supposed to do that?” she said.   
“I’m not much fun anyway,” Oliver said.  
“Fun?” she said, her voice sad and outraged. He thought she would cry. There was both resolve and defeat in her eyes, and he knew she had given up on something, on their future.   
The music was silenced, and Elettra, Genaro, Claude, and Fernando had kindly given them their space. Oliver was embarrassed. Not of Daphne, of himself. He felt horrible, like he had accidentally killed a small creature by stepping on it. “Easy, easy,” his grandfather would tell him, warning him not to run through the house when he was 13 and had a crazy growth spurt, was near to six feet but still felt like a kid. Because of his height, he’d tried to be gentle, it just felt like a necessity. But he hadn’t been easy, or gentle, with Daphne. He’d hurt her with the way he pulled away out of shame over what he truly wanted.   
He felt around in his pocket for the silly mask she had bought him. A silly little thing, one of Daphne’s many attempts to get him to have a little fun and be happy.  
Oliver left the house, like a ghost who needed a new home to haunt. He thought he could find the city wall from here. The streets had emptied out now that it was night, the sky overhead purple and star strewn. Street musicians were out as they had not been in the day, playing haunting music so different from the convivial parade music one would expect. It wasn’t somber, just beautiful in a way that approached holiness, as the hours were approaching the period of Christian fasting and mourning, acknowledging both Jesus’s death and resurrection so that Easter that came after Lent was a reunion with the dead who had been mourned, he was dead no longer. It was all so macabre, when given deep thought, it made the accompanying traditions of America feel not only garish but inappropriate-the pastel eggs, marshmallow chicks, and anthropomorphic rabbit in a bowtie.  
Would he go to his parents’ house for Passover? He just didn’t know. He felt so disconnected.  
A woman in a red silk dress and a big black and gold mask was playing the violin now, not Mr. Mardi Gras in purple that he had seen before.   
Oliver could smell the river, the smell of mud and fish and the distinct smell of water that was almost like the smell of woman. He sat down on the shore and listened to music on his phone, looking at the moon over the water. It wasn’t full, but looked it until you noticed the little dark dent, the lopsided corner. It was 11:45. Two or three songs played, he didn’t pay any attention. “A Life Less Ordinary” by Carbon Leaf began-the band he had mentioned to Daphne minutes before he hurt her. The irony didn’t have time to set in and sadden him. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned away from the moon.  
Elio. He wasn’t wearing a mask, and his beautiful face looked lit by hope itself as moonlight stroked his pale skin, green eyes like a tiger’s that lived in cold climates, and his dark hair. The moon loved him, light loved him, and this song revealed itself to have been about Elio, all along.   
“It’s midnight. Come with me,” he said. Elettra was right. He couldn’t be happy until he let this thing between them begin, and end, as it was destined to.   
The walked together. Musicians played, people sold flowers and masks, and singers on balconies sang impromptu, lusty, regional arias almost like the songs of flamenco and tango singers in Spain and Argentina. The night was beautiful.  
“You came!” Elio said.  
“Sure. Why not?” Oliver said.  
“Why not….” Elio repeated, teasingly, enigmatically repeating Oliver’s words.  
“So, is it some kind of carnival custom to pick up a stranger?” Oliver said.  
“Yes,” Elio said.  
“I guess I’m flattered,” Oliver said.  
“Yeah? You sound sad,” Elio said.  
“I had a fight with my girlfriend,” Oliver said.  
“You have a girlfriend?” Elio asked.  
“I don’t think I do anymore,” Oliver asked.  
“Sorry,” Elio said.  
“No, it’s for the best. She can do so much better. She loves herself. She’ll be fine,” he said.  
“And you?” Elio said.  
“I’m five years too old to lie to myself,” Oliver said.  
“’The Great Gatsby’,” Elio said. “Is that your favorite book?”  
“It’s my favorite horror novel,” Oliver said.  
Elio smiled. “‘So we beat on, boats borne ceaselessly into the past,’” Elio quoted.  
“God, I hope not,” Oliver said.  
Elio smiled, and slipped his hand in Oliver’s. Oliver almost wanted to get away, as if Elio’s hand were hot, heated over a fire like shoes for a wicked stepmother in a fairy tale to dance in. But, he kept his hand in his, daring his skin not to be burnt, daring himself not to ruin this.  
“I admire Gatsby. He was a devoted lover. Like a courtly knight. Daisy was his raison d’etre. Is that not how it should be?” Elio said. “all he did was for the sake of love, for the sake of her.”  
“And he died,” Oliver said.   
“It’s a dark comedy of errors. He took his chance. He had pure motives,” Elio said  
“I don’t know. I thought the point of the whole book is that they were all a pack of idiots and Nick Carroway barely escaped West Egg with his sanity,” Oliver said.  
“It’s like a modern Morte d’Arthur, they are a New England Lancelot and Guinevere, Daisy and Gatsby” Elio said.   
“You find suffering romantic, I see. Let me tell you, if someone is making you suffer, they won’t thank you for doing so, because they don’t realize it,” Oliver said.  
“Your heart is broken,” Elio said.  
“This town is uncanny. Is everyone a mind reader?” Oliver said.  
“Yes, but it’s a small town,” Elio said.  
Oliver laughed. He realized he’d been horribly gloomy. “Another local legend? I might write a book, when I get home.”  
“I wouldn’t do that. People are rather private, here,” Elio said.  
“Then I’ll cease and desist before I get started. But it’s fascinating stuff. Very Charles Leland Grove, or James G. Frazier,” Oliver said.  
Elio nodded towards a sandy brick arch overgrown with vines, with a small wrought iron gate. He opened the gate, and he and Oliver walked down a set of brick steps into a sunken garden. The face of the moon floated in broken slats of a golden disc on the water of a reflecting pool, and the reflections of the statues in the garden. He and Elio walked among them, and Elio told them the statue’s names.  
“Mercury,” a young, lithe but muscular young man.  
“Dionysus,” another youth with a perfect body, a Greek athlete’s body, and a face that was both delicate and strong, curly hair.  
“Venus,” a youthfully curved young woman, the folds of her linen dress and curls of her hair meticulously carved  
“Diana,” a slender nude hugging a stag, wearing a crescent moon crown.  
“Gang’s all here,” Oliver said. He loved classical mythology.  
“Except Hestia,” Elio said.  
“Yeah, but she’s never represented in art. She’s fire, and warmth,” Oliver said. “the invisible presence that makes a place home. I guess she’s pretty hard to find.”  
“For some,” Elio said sympathetically.   
They walked over to a majestic oak tree at the garden’s edge and sat on the grass. Behind them was a goddess statue made of stone rather than marble like the others.  
“I have to tell you something,” Elio said.  
Oliver looked at him, urging him to go ahead.  
“Before we met, I saw you at the waterfall in the forest outside town. I was..hiking. I was on a hike with Marzia, and I saw you and your friend. Another guy. You were kissing. You were naked, and kissing on the rocks. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It was what I wanted but had never had. And now, here you are,” Elio said.  
If anyone else, at any other time, or any other place had said this to him, Oliver wouldn’t have reacted well. But knowing that Elio knew what he wanted, had seen him like that, made him swoon. And yet, everything intensified in this dizzied state. The bright stars pulsed, the insects sang as loudly as they would in the country, and the moon was golden and benevolent, its light softer and kinder than the sun. The smells of the garden were soft and sweet, flowers whose names he didn’t know stroked open by the night.  
He kissed Elio, and it was intense but felt natural, inevitable, as if he had been moving towards this moment all his life.   
“Do you care that I saw?” Elio whispered, the words humming against Oliver’s lips and the vibrations spreading all along his skin.  
“I’m glad it was you,” Oliver said, and they kissed again. Elio’s hands slipped under his shirt, and glided his hand through his belly hair, played with his nipples. It felt good, almost too good, and Oliver stroked Elio’s neck, shoulders, back, he just wanted to touch as much of him as possible. Feverish pleasure engulfed him, in touching Elio and being touched by him. When he first heard the music, he wasn’t sure it wasn’t ringing from his head. Then he realized it was coming from the exquisite old stone house behind them.  
“Would you like to go in?” Elio asked.   
There was no longer any reason to resist. He would follow Elio anywhere.


	7. Chapter 7

Elio led Oliver through the ballroom, and he felt eerily like they were invisible. He had that feeling like when he and Daphne had wandered the streets of villagers in their blank clown face masks, that he was seeing but not seen. The golden light of the chandeliers shone on the fresco on the ceiling, a scene of heaven in celestial blue clouds, apostles, a beautifully doleful Christ, and the Virgin Mary presiding as Queen of Heaven. The people beneath this Renaissance depiction of Heaven, dancing beneath the bright, hot light, were wearing the dress of the eighteenth century, in dark colors, wearing masks. Instead of dancing, some were sitting at tables lining the walls, tables with red table clothes. Elio clearly had no interest in joining in, and they passed through the room without acknowledging anyone, even though Oliver was sure he saw the girl in white turn as if she wanted to speak to Elio, the long black velvet beak of the plague doctor mask inclined towards them.   
The music of the ballroom was muted by distance and then disappeared altogether as they went up the staircase, the wall lined with old paintings that looked just as timeless as the fresco.  
“You live here?” Oliver asked, in wonder.  
“No. We come here for the carnival. It’s tradition. We have to,” Elio said.  
“And the rest of the year, it’s just shut up?” Oliver asked.  
“ ‘Left to such ghosts as wish to inhabit it’,” Elio quoted.  
“Wuthering Heights,” Oliver said. “You read a lot.”  
“What else is there? Reading, music, sex. That’s my life,” Elio said.  
Oliver tried not to laugh, because Elio sounded so earnest.  
“Come on! How old are you?” Oliver said.  
“Eighteen. And I’m not just saying that,” Elio said.  
“Eighteen, and already so jaded,” Oliver teased.  
“Name three things you enjoy more than books, music, and sex,” Elio challenged.  
“Um…..butter,” Oliver said.   
Elio laughed. It was such an unguarded, merry sound, and his face even went a bit rosy. It was so humanizing, made him look young and alive rather than like a statue given color or an androgynous angel from a Da Vinci or Botticelli painting. He looked over at Oliver and smiled.  
“Butter?” Elio said.  
“Uh-huh,” Oliver confirmed. He didn’t want to tell Elio that he had never enjoyed actual sex as much as the fantasies of the things he wanted. Fantasies that, maybe, were about to come true. He’d had sex with two girls so far, his prom date Lesley and, of course, Daphne. He and Lesley had avoided each other after their embarrassingly quick fumbling, which was easy to do as here was just one week of school after Prom, and then graduation. They were still social media friends. With Daph, they could go weeks without making love, and when they did Daphne seemed not only eager for the next time but to want to have some kind of long awaited conversation with him. It made him so anxious.   
He was surprised when the Renaissance portraits, mythological and Biblical scenes became black ink paintings of orchids or landscapes, simple and calming, less imposing than all those faces staring at them from heavy frames. Elio held his hand, and with his thumb stroked Oliver’s palm with his thumb. He knew that he was nervous, nervous because he wanted this. He wanted to tell Elio he had never done this before, but the music began, a lone and yearning violin just like out in the village. Elio stroked his back lovingly.  
“You’re scared. Why?” Elio asked. “Don’t you trust me?”  
Oliver looked into Elio’s green eyes. It was uncanny, but he did trust him, although they just met. He felt so much for Elio: trust, desire, and something like friendship, a rumor of camaraderie that made him want to unpeel time until he reached the day they knew everything about each other, they were lovers and brothers. It was a lot to feel, and while the art on the wall had ceased to overwhelm him, now the music was doing so.   
“I trust you,” Oliver said.  
“Maybe you’re not used to trusting yourself,” Elio said.  
Damn, he was confident. It made Oliver feel young and tongue tied. Elio opened the bedroom door.   
Oliver looked around, at the fireplace and the bed which had heavy velvet curtains.   
“Is this your room?” Oliver said.  
“It’s just a room,” Elio said, with a nonchalant shrug. Oliver felt really out of place in the old world trappings of the room. It was close and warm and Elio’s beauty was even more vivid up close, alone. Something about his eyes and skin had an uncanny lustre that felt familiar, as if Oliver knew how to explain it, he just couldn’t remember.  
“I saw you, at the waterfall. Who was the other man? Is he your lover?” Elio asked.   
“No. I just met him. His name’s Willem. I guess we were friends. You know how it is, when you’re travelling. You meet people and feel so close to them all at once,” Oliver said.  
“That close?” Elio said.  
Oliver blushed. He knew that he did, he felt the warmth in his face, and his neck and chest.  
“No. I’ve never done that before. But, God….I always wanted to,” Oliver confided.  
“I know how you feel,” Elio said. Oliver thought of their kiss at the city wall, the complete freedom he had felt in being enthralled to Elio.   
“I wanted you, too,” Elio said. “Long before I knew that you existed.”  
For someone so young, Elio was so confident and poetic for someone so young. He swore he was eighteen, and so Oliver was free to admire him, to touch him, to feel this intense need like a star being born in his stomach. But he could feel himself shying away from it. If there was anywhere to run, he’d be going in that direction. Elio was pure life.  
“I feel like I can tell you about it. But I don’t know where to start. I thought I didn’t want to feel this way. I tried to change it, to keep it out of how I lived my life,” Oliver said.   
“Why?” Elio asked.  
“Because….” Oliver said. He didn’t have an answer. Because it was wrong? He had to admit that his family was observant but not devout, he hadn’t been hammered with rhetoric about a religious construct of morality. What guided him was his father’s disgust of homosexuals, the idea that they were weak, choosing a deviant existence, and, in their pursuit of civil rights, dishonest and overreaching. He felt his father’s disapproval. But he didn’t want to feel it now.  
Elio stepped into the distance between them, and touched Oliver’s face, exploring it with his fingertips as if he was sculpting him. Oliver smiled as Elio’s fingertips explored his face. No man had ever touched him so lovingly, so sensually. They both seemed to be basking in the sheer serendipity that the other existed. Oliver kissed Elio, and it wasn’t like kissing Daphne. He didn’t have to wait to feel something. He felt violently alive, more alive than he had ever dared to feel, afraid that it would be a demand or a failure, that he would be exposed somehow. Exposed is what he wanted to be with Elio. Elio clung to him, kissing him hard, and Oliver kissed him as if he was air.  
Still kissing, they crawled into bed, and Elio parted the heavy curtains around the four bed posts. Oliver wanted the dark, the to be safely ensconced in the close confines of the curtained bed like the forts kids build out of spare blankets. None such luck. The bedroom window was open, moonlight painted them.   
They finally broke apart to breathe. Elio lay sprawled as if crucified, but the look on his face was elated satisfaction. He stretched, and then rolled onto his side, looking at Oliver who was breathing deeply, and redfaced.  
“If you had changed, you wouldn’t be here,” Elio said.  
“You’re right,” Oliver said.  
“I know!” Elio said.  
They both laughed, to break the tension of all that was going on beneath their skin.   
Willem and Daphne felt like distant moons whose orbit was broken, drifting out into space. The silence was filled with the sound of their breathing, and from laughter and music from other rooms.   
“Can I kiss you?” Oliver said.  
“Yes, please,” Elio said emphatically, and they both move in at the same time. They kissed, and Elio slung his leg over Oliver’s bringing their bodies together, their bellies touching, their thighs, their cocks, though they were both clothed. That only added to the friction. Although he didn’t think about Willem, the sensation was now familiar, and Oliver let himself feel it, let himself feel Elio’s hardness against his own, and the heat blooming at the base of his back, along his spine, in his stomach, all over his body. They both became breathless and sweaty. Oliver’s hands roamed beneath Elio’s shirt, which was white and billowy. A “Seinfeld” reference recommended itself, but he wasn’t sure Elio would get it or appreciate it. Anyway, Oliver couldn’t talk. He chanced to glance at the door, and he saw party guests standing at the doorway. Women dressed in the excessive fashion of Versailles, gentleman in masks, and although their faces were hidden something about the attitude with which they sipped their drinks in crystal flutes seemed to be saying, ‘Yes, well, get on with it, then.’  
“Whoa! What the fuck?” Oliver said.  
“Another one of those regional customs you’ve been asking around town about. Don’t pay them any attention. It is just a feature of the day,” Elio said.  
“I’ve never done this before, Elio,” Oliver said. “and, with people watching….”  
“You don’t know who they are. And, when you think about it, they don’t know who you are, either. We’re the only ones who are really here, the only ones that matter, because we know each other’s names,” Elio whispered into his ear, and his breath touched his neck and ear in a hot, wet cloud tumble.  
Oliver thought he had been set free. In truth, he was enthralled. Elio was his master, in this moment, his beautiful youth without mercy, and he was happy in his bondage. As the masked people watched, they undressed each other. Elio had the body of Christ cradled in a scene of pieta, pale but luminous, thin and delicate. His limbs were so thin, his shoulders and collarbones sharp, but he seemed healthy, it was just the wiry androgyny of youth. He was surprisingly soft around his belly, and his ass was appealingly small but rounded, like a fruit. Oliver hungered to put his tongue into the cleft of Elio’s ass, as he’d seen in pornography. He wanted to take his long, rosy cock into his mouth, watch it become bathed in his saliva, taste the salty bitter, pellucid fluid beading at the thick tip of Elio’s cock.   
He could feel Elio’s delight in his body, too, the way he stroked his chest and belly, smiling as he savored the feeling of his hands sailing through Oliver’s chest hair. It felt good, in fact it felt almost too good. Daphne didn’t touch him all over like this. He had never been touched like this. He let all thoughts of her go, and just focused on the moment, on the screaming sensitivity aroused wherever Elio touched him.   
“I dreamed of this,” Elio whispered, as his palm enclosed Oliver’s cock. A woman in blue fanned herself with a black lace fan, and when her hand moved away from her face and chest one could see her globular breasts pressing against the bodice of her dress. They moved, up, and down, her breasts, subtly, but visibly, as she breathed. She was aroused, watching them. Oliver felt free to feel more, to feel everything. He tossed, and trembled, as Elio fellated him and stroked his thighs. This is what he had wanted, all along. He shut his eyes against the feeling, against the pleasure as it built, and built, like the keening song of a violin.  
When he opened his eyes, the people in masks were gone.  
“Did you tell them to leave?” Oliver asked.  
“They just moved on,” Elio said. His blithe acceptance of life was so beautiful, so simple and so profound. Oliver trusted him completely. He tensed in expectation, waiting for Elio to put his lips to his cock again, but none such luck. He did, however, toy with his cock, moving it about in his hands, playing with its weight and length, enjoying the firm, warm flesh. He traced the vein along the shaft with his fingertip, and then placed his fingertip in the small slit at the head.  
Oliver cried out in protest. “No, please,” he said, because he didn’t want it to end. He suddenly felt that Elio was cruel. Still dear to him, but cruel. He wanted to weep.  
Elio smiled and kissed his stomach. He lay along the length of Oliver’s belly, his cock resting on Oliver’s stomach and weeping on his stomach hair in a little glistening pool.  
“I’m sorry,” Elio said.  
“No, no, I just don’t want it to be over. I never want it to be over,” he said.   
They came back to each other’s arms, and kissed greedily. Oliver didn’t know where he was going to be in the morning. In just the span of a few hours, he had found a man to touch, to love, and he wanted this one night to last longer than any before it.   
Elio lay beneath him, his legs wrapped around Oliver, and he rolled beneath him, undulating eagerly. His back arched as Oliver stroked his cock as they kissed, as they moved against each other seeking skin, flesh, heat. Elio put his fingers to Oliver’s lips, and Oliver sucked them. His stomach clenched in excitement. He knew what Elio meant, what he was saying he wanted. He sucked his fingers wet and sloppy, so they would be effective in their purpose. Then he guided Elio’s hands to the cleft of his ass.  
Elio’s brow knitted between his dark, thick eyebrows. He hadn’t expected this. He ran his fingers along the valley of Oliver’s ass in disbelief. Oliver closed his eyes at the unique sensation.   
“You want this?” Elio asked.  
He wanted to repeat Elio’s words that, he had dreamed about it. And he had, fingering himself along to pictures and videos, or in the shower with these images fresh in his head. Even when he’d felt the fizzy but shallow desire of the beginning of an infatuation with a man, he hadn’t really had someone to want, not anyone he might have. He wanted this.  
Elio prepared him, and they looked into each other’s eyes so that no sensation passed between either of them without being witnessed. There was pain, on Oliver’s part, and with their eyes and brief nods they negotiated where to move, how fast and how slow. Oliver loved the feeling of fullness, even when it stung. He loved that it was Elio, this rare and special beauty, whom he felt so much for so quickly. He rocked back and forth, trying to urge his fingers deeper, and was rewarded with all the sensations he suspected awaited, pleasure he hadn’t allowed himself to feel because there was always shame on the other side of it whenever he fantasized. This wasn’t a fantasy, this was real, oh, so real.  
“Now?” Elio asked.  
Oliver nodded, and Elio removed his fingers. He positioned the tip of his cock at the door of Oliver’s body, and Oliver sat on his cock, little by little.  
He cried out. They stroked his cock together, he looked down to see his hands and Elio’s stroking him, as he rode Elio’s cock, moving with the motion of Elio’s hips beneath him.  
They kissed, and Oliver felt it was all too much, he would die of this. It couldn’t last, it couldn’t end…..

Daphne’s immediate plans: to head back to the hostel, and angrily pack her clothes and listen to Cowboy Mouth. Fuck Oliver. She was gonna play her music so loud she couldn’t remember the first time he met all her family and how sweet he was to her little nephew, she was going to forget losing her virginity to him, she was going to forget how crazy she had been about him when they first met, that pride that she had a boyfriend who was gorgeous and smart, a rare and irresistible combination. She was especially going to forget how humiliated she was when he walked out on her, like there was something waiting in the night that he couldn’t resist, like he had forgotten her already.  
But, first she had to apologize to their hosts.  
“I’m so sorry, y’all,” she said. “You shouldn’t have had to listen to that.”  
“You are young, and passionate. That’s as it should be,” Fernando said. “But, he shouldn’t wander alone, tonight.”  
“Oliver loves to be alone. Trouble is he hasn’t met anyone better than alone,” Daphne said.  
“Ooh, I love that type!” Elettra said.  
“It’s a type? Oh, shit,” Daphne said.  
Elettra laughed. “Are you now all dressed up with nowhere to go?” she asked.   
“Of course not! She must show everyone Claude’s fine work,” Fernando said.  
Claude and Fernando smiled at her, and Daphne felt a little calmer. Looks like she’d be going to the carnival ball with two perfectly charming escorts. She could put off texting Jen and returning to the hostel for the night. In truth, she was relieved that she wouldn’t be hiking in the dark, out of the village and alone in the countryside at night. Beneath the playful and elegant energy of the parades and costumes, there was something a little eerie about the carnival, a tension she couldn’t put her finger on. If Oliver had found something to pursue out in the night, she hoped that he was safe as he sought it, and she hoped that he found it. They would talk in the morning, maybe. Maybe he would even apologize. He was always respectful of her, not the typical guy who pressed his needs and desires and made them the most important thing going on. It was why his behavior over the last couple of days had been so strange. Finally, he seemed to want something, to be looking for it, and it was anywhere but where she was. That hurt, but she’d live. She was sure of it.   
She had a ball to get to. Daphne adjusted her mask, and said, “Of course! Everyone has to see Claude’s work!” she agreed sunnily. As her mom always told her, ‘Never let ‘em see you sweat.’  
“Mama,” Caro said, and Elettra turned from Daphne to her son. Caro pointed at the TV, and they all looked in that direction.  
“That’s the hostel where we’re staying! Me, and Ollie, and our friends. What happened? I don’t know what they’re saying,” Daphne said. The hostel was on TV, on a news bulletin, but of course she wasn’t fluent enough in the local language to pick up what the story was. But, she recognized the building, and their were ambulances in front of the building, their lights flashing.  
“Something bad has happened,” Claude said. “Come to the kitchen, cara,” he added, and put his arm around Daphne’s shoulders. She felt irritable. She just wanted to be told what was going on, not coddled like a kid. But, Claude was kind, they were all kind, she appreciated that. She walked to the kitchen with Claude, but she really wanted to run out into the village and find Oliver……


	8. Chapter 8

This was sweet and stolen. Oliver kissed Elio’s shoulder. He’d never felt so free to show affection to another person. It wasn’t expected of him or forbidden, it was simply what he wanted, and that felt so good. Elio was lying on his stomach. He stirred, almost awake. Oliver had woken up first, and for a time been content just to look at Elio’s dark hair around his angelic face. He looked young, and Oliver felt guilty. He reminded himself that Elio had said he was eighteen.  
“Last day of the Carnival,” Elio murmured.  
“Oh, yeah? Any customs to observe?” Oliver said.  
“Just the last parade. When we say goodbye to the Beast,” Elio said. “People get pretty loose. It can be pretty crazy.”  
“In this quaint, picturesque postcard of an Alpine hamlet? No way,” Oliver said.  
“This place has its secrets,” Elio said. He turned around and looked up at Oliver. His green eyes were sweet and sleepy. God, he looked so innocent. Oliver’s stomach twisted with guilt.  
“If their intentions are so pure, why do they always go for younger guys, huh?” his dad had asked rhetorically once, during one of his rants. Oliver had never forgotten it, and felt like he had lived up to his dad’s skewered perceptions of homosexuals.  
“What’s wrong?” Elio asked. “You should see yourself. You look so solemn, suddenly. Something stole all the light from your eyes.”  
Elio kissed him. Oliver stopped thinking about his father. All he knew was the softness of Elio’s lips, the wet warmth of their kiss, the loving feeling of the sunshine pouring into the room, and the almost overpowering coziness of the old fashioned, heavy covers on the bed. Now that it was light, he could see more of the room, and it had the same old-world elegance of the rest of what he’d seen of the house. He would feel laughably out of place, just a suburban kid whose mom had decorated their place out of Home Goods at the local mall, if he cared. Only Elio mattered. He kissed Elio hard and felt like he was stealing his breath, held him close and was careful not to crush his slight frame. But he was stronger than Oliver gave him credit for, and he delighted in feeling Elio’s body convert desire to force in the way he touched him as they kissed.  
“What made you unhappy?” Elio asked.  
“Everything before you,” Oliver said.  
“Forget it all,” Elio said. They kissed again, frantic, breathless, wanting to drown the past.  
Neither of them noticed how close they were to the edge of the bed. Oliver rolled off first, hitting the floor, Elio followed. They looked at each other, sheepish and sharing the humor, and smiled as they fell to kissing once more on the carpet, tangled in the covers. Oliver grasped Elio’s cock. He was hard, he wanted him. Elio’s face took on a wild, carefree smile, and his eyes darkened hungrily with pleasure. He loved this, and Oliver loved life at this moment. Elio stroked him, and the seconds stretched with the promise of infinity as they looked at each other and stroked each other.  
Elio bowed his head, and Oliver anticipated that Elio’s pink, full, girlish lips would fit themselves around the head of his cock. The expectation sent a jolt of pleasure wriggling at the base of his back, in his balls, and within him, where he was already stinging sore from their turns the night before. Instead, Elio’s tongue darted into the nook of his anus, and the ache from last night met the pleasure of that tongue, the kittenish lashing of the tip of Elio’s tongue. He had no shame in this man’s presence and didn’t mind rolling his hips and crying out. He wanted Elio to know he was the only person who had ever made him purely happy.  
“Shhh,” Elio said. “Most of the guests here are my relatives.”  
“Oh, shit, that’s awkward,” Oliver said.  
“Could be, yes,” Elio said.  
Oliver had never been in such pleasure that he had to hold in a scream. He tried to hold it all in, as Elio went back to pleasuring him, but it just made him feel hot from within, as if he was swelling with the heat of his feelings. The only upshot was that trying to hold back and hold it in intensified his feelings.  
Elio steadied himself with one hand on Oliver’s shoulder as, with his other hand, he positioned the head of his cock at the door of Oliver’s body. The feeling of his hand was somehow more intense than that of Elio entering him.  
“I’ve always wanted a lover like you,” Elio gasped, burying himself in Oliver.  
“Like me? How?” Oliver gasped, holding the other man as he seemed hit with sudden breathlessness. Elio caught his breath in Oliver’s arms, and they breathed together, kissing and sharing their breath.  
“You know, ruggedly handsome and well read. Who doesn’t want that?” Elio said.  
Oliver didn’t know what to say, and anyway he couldn’t speak as Elio moved his hips and Oliver’s body accepted more of his cock. His body gulped and grasped at Elio, it wanted him, and after the night before, it knew him. Oliver knew he could never go back to tending to his desires with his own hand, and he doubted any other man would ever please him. Would he have Elio’s slender and elegant fingers, his long lashes around dark green eyes with an ever changing expression that was sometimes humor, sometimes mysterious, sometimes lustrous with love? He moved with a grace and fluidity that Oliver could watch forever, and yet there was a certain whimsical bounce too that told how much he loved simply being alive. Oliver was so happy he could feel the fear waiting that he would never be this happy again.  
“Oh, no,” Elio gasped.  
Oliver thought it was just his orgasm coming, sooner than he wanted, and stroked Elio’s neck.  
“It’s okay,” Oliver said, whispering into his ear, and stroking the wet hair at the nape of his neck. Mmm, Elio smelled salty, his sweat had a freshness like the salt of the ocean. Cleansing. His sweat was baptizing Oliver.  
“No, no, it’s not. Oh no, oh no,” he gasped, and yet he didn’t stop. His thrusts picked up pace, and Oliver had to roll his hips beneath Elio to keep up. This brought his cock yet deeper, and it abruptly jabbed his prostate. The pleasure was like an inverted punch, rising suddenly in his belly. He grit his teeth as he groaned, catching himself before he came. He wanted more. Anyway, as soon as this was over he had to get back to Fernando and Claude’s and face Daphne, so it was much more preferable for Elio to fuck the living daylights out of him for another hour or two.  
But, Elio pulled out and scrambled away as if frightened or in pain.  
“Hey! Elio! What’s wrong?” Oliver said. No answer. “Elio.”  
“Please, please go. Please, please, please….” Elio whined. He was still on the floor, but on the other side of the bed.  
Oliver thought about the least sexy things he could and breathed deeply. After a few minutes of imagining he was getting his taxes done at H&R Block, then that he was at the dentist, and breathing deeply like he was in a yoga class, his erection flagged and he went round to see what was wrong with Elio. Elio was entangled in the covers, and had pulled them over his head.  
“Elio! Is it a cramp? Let’s take a look at it, buddy,” he said, and whipped the cover off.  
What he saw was no longer the milk skinned, slender boy who looked like an archangel from a cathedral fresco. It was the emblem of the carnival, the Beast. He was more muscular than Elio, taller, if Oliver could judge with the creature laying on the floor, and covered with dark hair all over its body. It wasn’t quite fur, as an animal would have-it really was human hair, with the thick and healthy luster of a pregnant woman’s hair. So much human hair, all over a body that wasn’t human whatsoever.  
And this is what he had fallen so helplessly in love with? Oliver was shocked. He was scared.  
Then he remembered, yes, this was Elio. And whatever had happened, he had pleaded with his body to stop it and it had not relented. That, Oliver could understand. How many times had he asked for this desire for another man’s body to end, to leave him, and take all the guilt and shame with it? But, as Elio had pointed out, if he had changed, how would they have ever met? This must have some purpose, too. And, above all else, it was Elio. He loved him in any form.  
He knelt beside the creature.  
“Hey, it’s okay. It is. Come ‘ere, buddy, let me take care of you,” he said, and moved closer to the Beast. He couldn’t see his face, since Elio had buried it in the covers again.  
Faster than Oliver could have done anything to protect himself, the creature pinned him to the bed, its strength locking him there beneath it, and its face so close to his that thick hair that covered its face tickled his as its eyes bored into his. His eyes were still green, but flecked with gold, its pupils that of a creature that can see in the dark. It roared pointlessly, and the wet moisture of its mouth assailed him, the noise reverberated through him, held there as he was, trapped beneath it as Elio was trapped within it. Elio was in there. The creature’s erect cock rested heavily on Oliver’s thigh, firm and wet heavy flesh.  
Oliver stroked it.  
The Beast closed its eyes. It shuddered as Oliver touched him, and his hold on Oliver’s shoulders let up. Only when he was free did he see and feel the scratches left by those hands that were so human except for the long, taloned nails. He was scratched, he was bleeding, and those lacerations itched and the blood was cold and tickled him where it ran in red rivulets down his shoulder and arm. He didn’t care. Adrenaline and sexual arousal buoyed him like the wind carrying a cloud. The creature was responding to him. It entered him, and he was thicker than Elio. He could feel the Beast’s thick cock in his stomach, it was as if he was impaled. But, he wanted this. He moved like he wanted it, and closed his eyes until he felt Elio’s soft lips. He reached out, and felt once more Elio’s soft skin. He also felt his wet, hot tears. They were both weeping. They kissed, and wept together. Oliver came on his own stomach. Elio pulled out, and came on Oliver’s chest, looking like a martyred saint dying in ecstasy, his eyes closed like he could hear God. He was shaking. He was himself again, no longer the Beast.“It’s okay,” Oliver said.  
“If you say that one more time!” Elio said.  
“Sorry. How do you feel?” Oliver asked.  
“Jesus Christ!” Elio said, desperate. He turned over.  
“So…you’re one of the werewolves, from the stories people tell around here. How did it happen?” Oliver said.  
“I was born this way,” Elio sighed.  
“Me too,” Oliver said.  
That got his attention. Elio turned over.  
“What do you mean, ‘you too’?” Elio asked. A glimmer of hope was in his eyes, those expressive and yet enigmatic green eyes, darkly smoldering like emeralds.  
“I mean, for a long time, I felt like a monster, because of how I am. But I’m not one, and neither are you, Elio,” Oliver said.  
“It’s not the full moon. That shouldn’t have happened,” Elio said.  
“Everyone loses control sometimes,” Oliver said.  
“Did I hurt you?” Elio asked, and his voice was so vulnerable and soft and shaky.  
“No. I liked it,” Oliver said.  
“What? How could you have liked it?” Elio said.  
Oliver didn’t have so much confidence as to admit that Elio’s cock was big, long and thick, when he was a werewolf, and he loved it. He kissed him, instead, hoping that would suffice to get the message across. Oliver was cold with sweat, covered in it, and out of breath. This would have to be it. He couldn’t take anymore, he needed a deep sleep.  
The door opened, and they both scrambled for covers that were on the floor.  
It was the girl in white, Elio’s friend.  
“Marzia!” Elio said, affronted.  
“The human is wanted downstairs,” Marzia said. “he has to get out of here.”  
“Has something happened?” Elio asked.  
“The Maladanti,” she said.  
“But I thought the Prince took care of them,” Marzia said.  
“Yes, yes, he compelled them to leave the city,” Marzia said.  
“Good, what’s the problem, then?” Elio said.  
“They attacked outside the city,” she said, and turning to Oliver she said, “Your friends have been hurt!”  
“Daph?” Oliver said. “Daphne? Is she hurt? Where did this happen?”  
“Fernando, Claude, and Ma Donna will tell you more,” Marzia said.  
“Madonna?” Oliver said.  
“Not that Madonna! Just go,” Marzia said.  
Oliver hastily scooped up his clothes and dressed hurriedly. He never should have left Daphne alone. If anything had happened to her, it was all his fault for leaving her alone. But he didn’t regret a second with Elio.  
“Slow down, before you break something,” Marzia said, attempting to lead the way through the palazzo.  
“How can you be so cool? If the legends are anything to go by, aren’t the Maladanti a threat?” Oliver said.  
“Yes, but how can I explain it? There was peace for a while when Elio, Matteo, Chiara and I were small, but it ended when we were still just children, and these little skirmishes and ploys happen from time to time, they have happened for some time now. At least thanks to Balthasar no one in the city was hurt. He doesn’t see it that way, and is in a veritable paroxysm of guilt,” Marzia said.  
They descended the stairs to a foyer, and Daphne ran into Oliver’s arms.  
He held her and felt relief that she was okay wash over him. He had just seen Elio as a werewolf, and the idea of Daphne being torn apart by such a creature had scared him cold. But, here she was. The warm, familiar weight of her made him happy, and he realized he loved her the way he loved his little sister Abby and his little brother, Jacob. She was familiar and apart of him, even if there was no passion. She was alive, he was alive, and it elated him to feel her and see her once more.  
The bookstore owner, the kindly old man, was a little ways behind her, standing in front of a Baroque painting of Olympian gods who looked more like Viennese aristocrats frolicking. He was flanked by a younger man with a sallow, sickly, sleepless handsomeness like a Universal movie vampire, and a woman with Elio’s features, the proud nose, thick mouth, pale skin, and dark hair, wearing the kind of clothes elderly people put on to do Tai Chi in the park, and a long silk scarf.  
“What’s going on?” Oliver asked.  
“Oh, my God, Ollie, it was horrible. The hostel….a wild animal attacked the hostel. But, it wasn’t an animal at all! And I couldn’t find you…Oh, my God…Ollie, I was so scared we couldn’t find you, I’m so sorry we fought…” Daphne babbled.  
“We didn’t fight, really, Daph, it’s okay…” he reassured her. “Where are Dan and Jen? Are they okay?”  
Daphne broke down into incoherent tears. Oliver held onto her, and felt her knees weaken as if they would give out. But, she stayed on her feet. Things must be really bad. Daphne was a tough cookie. She hated scenes of women in movies being “damsels in distress.” She teared up at touching movies (“The Notebook”, “Stand By Me”, any version of “A Star is Born”), Oliver had never seen her break down. She had been his pillar of strength when his grandmother died, and his last link with the tenderness of his childhood was gone. Now, she needed him to be strong for her.  
“A horrible fate has befallen your friends. Forget them. They are never going to be the people you knew again. They are no longer human,” said the lugubrious gentleman beside Fernando, whom Oliver now remembered must be his lover, Claude.  
The woman who looked like his dearest Elio said, “Claude, that is not the way to begin. There is much to explain, but right now I think your friend needs all our attention.”  
“Yes, please, take care of Daphne,” Oliver said. The woman regarded him as if considering what he was made of. She nodded, and walked ahead of them. He coaxed Daphne to walk, and the woman who must have been Elio’s relative, perhaps his mother, led them to a sitting room. Above the fireplace was a massive painting of Judith and her handmaiden beheading the barbarian king. It was ominous with its brooding shadows and scant light, but surely very old and valuable.  
He and Daphne settled on a couch, and the woman sat across from them.  
“My name is Zelenia Visconti, and this is my house,” she said.  
“Visconti? Isn’t that a noble family?” he said.  
“It’s an old and very well-known name, but in truth it’s a big family with many branches all across Europe. There are many of us, and after a while it is just a name,” she said.  
“But, this place…” he said.  
“My ancestors had excellent taste in art,” she said, as if it was really nothing. Daphne was catching her breath, and Oliver was rubbing her back.  
“Are you a werewolf, too?” Oliver asked.  
“You Americans always get straight to the point, don’t you?” Zelenia said. “I am Benandanti. The creatures that attacked your friend are Maladanti. They have far less self control, and regard humans like yourself as merely food, their natural prey as a gazelle is to a lion.”  
“And what did Claude mean about Dan and Jen not being human anymore?” Oliver asked.  
“Of course they’re human! This is crazy!” Daphne said.  
“They are what we call ‘vargulf’. They may become werewolves themselves, or they may simply become deranged humans with unspeakable desires. They have been dealt with,” Zelenia said. She spoke in the same calm, cool manner as the young girl, Marzia, Elio’s friend. These people were well used to war, Oliver noted.  
“Where are they?” He asked.  
“They are not the people you knew,” Zelenia said.  
“I hear you. And I think I understand. But, to me they’re still Dan and Jen. I didn’t like them too well, but I know them, and no matter what you say they are now I can’t see them as anything but human beings,” Oliver said.  
“Yeah, well, that’s because you haven’t seem them recently. I have. And let’s just say, vargulfs don’t do mornings,” said the first American voice besides Daphne’s that Oliver had heard in a while. It was jarring.  
He looked up, and a tall, athletically built Asian American man around Oliver’s age, in black jeans and a black tshirt, strode into the room.  
“We’ve talked about this! Dan and Jen aren’t monsters! They’re my friends!” Daphne said, animated again, on her feet and in his face. Clearly, they had met before. Oliver was relieved to see Daphne back to her feisty self.  
“Look, no one says you can’t care about them. They’re being taken care of, don’t worry,” the man said, as if this was definitely a conversation they’d had before.  
“And who are you?” Zelenia asked.  
“Kenji Masanori,” he said, with a charming smile, extending his hand.  
“He claims to hunt werewolves for a living,” Daphne said, ill temperedly, as if she didn’t believe such a claim. “But I’ll be damned if you hunt my best friend!”  
“No need. She’s been contained, along with everyone else who was bitten,” Kenji said.  
“That is a relief, truly,” Zelenia said.  
Oliver’s head was spinning.  
“This is my boyfriend, Oliver,” Daphne said.  
“Glad you two found each other. Now, get out,” Kenji said.  
Oliver looked up. He was annoyed. Who was this guy?  
“Not until we see Dan and Jen,” he said.  
“Impossible. They’re being transported to a secure location to receive the necessary treatment. There’s a slim chance we might be able to get ahead of this thing, and they’ll never contract lycanthropy” Kenji said. “But, you two need to get the Hell out of here.”  
“There could be more?” Zelenia said.  
“Yes, and we understand your people’s ancestral beliefs about your role in this, but we need you to take a step back and let us handle it,” Kenji said.  
He sounded like a war movie. Oliver had an intense urge to laugh. What had his life become, in the span of just one night and one morning?  
“Okay. We’ll leave Italy as soon as we can,” Daphne said. She softened and offered Kenji Masanori a grateful smile. “Thanks for everything. I was frantic at the hostel, when I saw the scene there. You really calmed me down. I shouldn’t have dashed off like that to look for Ollie.”  
“You found him. All’s well that ends well. Your friends are in good hands. There’s a fortress not far from here, a safehouse, and that’s where they are now” said the Hunter.  
“Thank you for everything, Hunter Masanori,” Zelenia said. Hunter seemed to be his profession as well as his title, like a doctor or police officer.  
Oliver felt a buzzing in his ear like a mosquito. No, more like a breaking wave. He couldn’t leave Italy, not so soon, not now, that he had found Elio.


	9. Chapter 9

The thought of leaving Elio felt painful, absurd, too big to comprehend all at once. But, after what Oliver had seen Elio transform into, and the distress Daphne was in, he knew that he couldn’t discredit everything he had heard from Claude, Zelenia, and Kenji. He had to at least say goodbye to Elio.  
“I have to..” Oliver gestured to indicate upstairs.  
“Go? You always have to go somewhere,” Daphne said scornfully.  
Oliver sighed. Well, here it was, the moment of truth. “Look, Daph…I met someone. And I have to explain to them…”  
“Then they must be something damned special, because you never explain yourself to anyone. God, I’ve been so stupid to think you actually have the emotional capacity to care about anybody but yourself. So damned selfish!” Daphne said. She stormed off, and Kenji Masanori, their apparent resident Dr. Van Helsing in this Hammer horror movie morning, followed after her.  
There was nothing left to do but go upstairs, and he felt lousy after Daphne’s tirade. It felt like a curse. Was he really selfish? He was the oldest in his family. “Share and be fair” was the mantra of his childhood-“Be fair to your brother, share with your brother and sister”. Abby was the sensible middle child, close to their mother and able to wring a warmth and fondness out of their father that no one else could. Jacob was the baby, and the second boy-whatever kinks in their parenting strategy that their parents had tested on Oliver were perfected now, and Jake got the benefit of the mistakes they had made and learned from. They were more patient and kind with their younger kids, and Oliver felt like he and his parents all kind of acknowledged this with the po’faced unwanted comradery of people who’d survived a car crash together: “Yeah, you messed up, I know it, but at least we survived.” He’d never been selfish because he’d never been spoiled. He refused to believe he was a selfish person, yet he hated that he had hurt Daphne.  
He went back to Elio’s room, and found him thrashing about the bed, as if ill or in pain.  
“Elio? What’s wrong?” he asked and felt a twinge of fear that he would turn into the Beast again. He could handle it, but he didn’t want to see it just now, after hearing about what happened at the hostel.  
Elio groaned pitifully. Oliver touched his forehead and wiped sweat from his brow. Elio’s eyes flung open, and he said, “Don’t leave.”  
More guilt. He’d hurt Daphne by pursuing Elio, now he was about to hurt Elio by leaving Italy with Daphne. Elio stretched his arms out, and Oliver couldn’t resist, he got into bed with him. At once Elio wrapped his arms and legs around him, and his erection was pressed against Oliver’s sweatshirt. Elio kissed him desperately, as if he was water in a desert.  
“Hey, Elio, I don’t think you’re well,” Oliver said. His skin was burning up, and he was sweating. Oliver’s body was certainly responding to Elio’s ardor, but he was also concerned.  
“It’s you,” Elio said. “I think you’re my soulmate.”  
Oh, God. Yeah, the kid really wasn’t well. Making outlandish proclamations like that, he had to be high. E? Coke? Oliver’s drug acumen was nil, he knew well that he was a hopeless square. Dan had once invited him to a “thing” for 4/20, and he had to point out that this national “green day” was in honor of Hitler’s birthday.  
“Give it a rest, for once, will ya, Bubba?” Dan said, and went alone. Oliver didn’t have the guts to ask just what Dan wanted him to give a rest, exactly. Sometimes, you just wanted someone to say it out loud, so you know that you didn’t imagine it and you’re angry for a reason.   
“Elio, I’m going to get you some water. Coffee. A hot water bottle?” Oliver said. He didn’t know what to do when someone was high.  
“No, no, I’m not sick. Let me explain,” Elio said. He sat up in bed. Oliver missed his heated kisses, his lips like a brand on his neck, and the weight and friction of Elio’s cock against Oliver’s. Why had he run his mouth, and brought all that to a halt?   
“It’s different for us, the Benandanti,” Elio said. “We don’t just go to singles night at the corner pub, or sign up for online dating. We each have a soulmate. You know, like Plato said.”  
“Actually, it was Aristaphones,” Oliver said.  
“Philosophy 101, huh?” Elio said.  
“Yup. Almost switched my major,” Oliver said.  
“Why didn’t you?” Elio asked.  
Oliver laughed. “My dad’s a lawyer. A very, very successful guy in the city. If his oldest son majored in philosophy, he’d have a heart attack.” He only got away with Anthropology because his dad thought it sounded like the kind of thing Oliver could land a decent academic job in one day.  
“Law and philosophy are not that much different, are they? My understanding of your country’s history is that its founding fathers were keen intellectuals as well as practicing lawyers, and believed in the Enlightenment ideals-Rousseau, Locke, the like,” Elio said.  
“Yeah, well, I can only imagine my father and Thomas Jefferson at a dinner party,” Oliver said. “Plenty of humans believe in soulmates, Elio. It’s not so strange. But, you know when you’ve found that person. It might not be me.It could be some guy, down the road, when you’re older.”  
“I told you, it’s different for us. Its not something we can control. It’s not a decision we make, its fate,” Elio said.  
“Fate is a result of the decisions you make. Like, karma,” Oliver said.  
“This is getting nowhere! Suffice it to say, its something that happens spontaneously. That’s why we were so suddenly drawn to each other, why I transformed and why I feel like this now. We’ve found each other, now we have to bond,” Elio said.  
“Bond?” Oliver said.  
“Yes. If you were Benandanti, you would feel this too. This need,” Elio said.   
“I do need you. The idea of leaving you…it was weird. It hurt, all at once. When my mom told me that my grandmother died, I didn’t feel it all at once. It took a while. Then it hit me out of nowhere when I was at the movies with Daph,” Oliver said. “but this was so suddenly, sharply painful.”  
“You can’t leave me,” Elio said.  
“What do you need?” Oliver said. They both looked down. “Okay, I get what you need, but what goes into this bonding? How long should it take?”  
“About forty-eight hours. We make love, and our souls settle into their alignment,” Elio said.  
Those words were sensual, beautiful, tempting.   
“Elio, your aunt and the others seem concerned that there are more Maladanti in the area. This Hunter guy, who’s a total douche bag, by the way, says he and his team need time to route them all out,” Oliver said.  
“Most Hunters are douche bags, but they mean well,” Elio said. “they are usually dependable allies.”  
He had to admit, Daphne and Kenji Masanori had a chemistry between them that made him jealous, even though he could finally admit that he wasn’t attracted to her. It was hypocritical. Was he as selfish as she had accused him of being?  
“If there are Maladanti afoot, all the more reason to stay in bed. Like John and Yoko,” Elio said.  
“What do you know about all that?” Oliver teased. Elio was so young. It was so cute when kids talked about the Beatles.   
“I would love to stay in bed for peace with you. But, Daph needs me,” Oliver said.  
“I need you. And you need me. The bonding period is very…..” Elio closed his eyes, and he had another sharp spasm. His eyes opened, and though his body was still mostly Elio’s-pale, slender, hairless chest-his cock was the Beast’s rendering him a flesh and blood personification of the ancient Priapus, and his eyes were tinged with that inhuman gold. The flecks of color flared, then passed.  
“Can you go get Mafalda? She should be in the kitchen,” Elio said.  
“Are you sure you want to be alone?” Oliver asked.  
“Go,” Elio said firmly.  
Oliver found his way to the palazzo’s kitchen, which was homey and simple. A tall, thin, older woman with auburn tinted brown hair was startled to see him, and said, “Who are you?”  
“My name’s Oliver, Oliver Wolffstan,” he said, “I’m Elio’s friend. He’s sick, he asked me to get you.”  
She nodded and began gathering dried herbs and jars. Oliver helped her carry everything upstairs. They returned to Elio’s room together. When they got there, Elio’s face was stricken, and he was desperately pleasuring himself with a pillow, although there seemed to be little pleasure in it, he was seeking relief. If this ‘bonding’ period was a travail of involuntary arousal, it must have been horrible to go through alone. Time felt short-surely, once again, Daphne was waiting for him and wondering where he had gotten off to, but he couldn’t leave Elio like that.   
Mafalda rushed over to him clucking and softly exclaiming empathetically, as if speaking to a child.  
“You should have knocked-I’m not decent,” Elio said wittily and Mafalda said something in a dialect that Oliver didn’t know, but she sounded lovingly stern.  
She opened a jar and began applying an amber colored paste that looked like honey with tiny herbal flowers dried in it to Elio’s skin. His beautiful face was suffused with relief. Oliver wondered what was in it? When she came to Elio’s erect cock, she didn’t seem shy but she held the jar out to Oliver as if he should take over from here. Elio’s eyes met his as Oliver covered his hands in the paste-which had a minty tingle-and stroked him.  
“Ahhhh,” Elio sighed.  
“Better?” Oliver asked.  
“For now,” Elio said.   
“What do you need to get through this?” Oliver asked.  
“If we were both Benandanti, you would know. Maybe its me. My father’s human, too,” Elio said. “So, now my soulmate is human as well…”  
“Yeah? So you’re half human,” Oliver said.  
“No. If you are born with the gifts of a Benandanti, that’s it, that’s what you are. My mother, she is all but human. She has a certain sight, but she cannot transform. I was observed, and tested throughout my childhood, and when I was about 13 it was clear, what I was,” Elio said, and Oliver thought of Elettra’s son, Genaro. He had thought he was a Benandanti, too, but seemed to have ruled it out and now just considered himself a misfit.  
“So,” Elio continued, “my parents sent me to live with my aunt. She is la Donna, the priestess of Diana of the Forest, we all answer to her.”  
“Yeah, she’s a tough lady. Like an Amazon,” Oliver said.  
“How she would love that comparison. But not Hippolyta, the Amazon queen, who let Hercules play her like a lovesick dummy,” Elio said.  
“You really know your mythology,” Oliver marveled. “It must have been tough to leave your parents.”  
“It’s fine. I see them all..the…time..” Elio said, his breath becoming labored. Mafalda pointedly left the room and closed the door behind her.  
Oliver knew what to do, but he had never done it, before. He had watched the act performed, online, and daydreamed about doing it, and the moment seemed to have presented itself. He put his lips to the tip of Elio’s cock. Elio’s legs weakened, spread a bit more as his back arched, and he moaned this time in pleasure.   
Oliver lowered his mouth a bit more, took more of Elio in his mouth, tasted the bitter-salty fluid wept by his cock and the paste Mafalda had given him, which tasted of honey and mint and various wildflowers. Elio’s cock had the texture and girth of a sausage but was hot and alive. It lengthened and twitched in Oliver’s mouth, and he seemed to be constantly shifting the position of his lips and his soft, inner jaws to better pleasure Elio and so that he could breathe. Again, like when they woke up together, Oliver felt free to express all of how he felt with Elio. He slid his mouth off Elio’s cock to nuzzle his balls, and inhale and taste the tang of his pubic hair and balls. He licked at the cleft of Elio’s ass, but didn’t dare to insert his tongue into Elio’s anus as Elio had done for him the night before. He wanted to taste everything, not linger at one place. He took his balls into his mouth one by one, savoring the soft, wrinkled skin, the tender flesh. Good God, he was so soft Oliver had a perverse desire to bite him. He did indeed bite his belly and his thighs, less vulnerable areas.   
“Oh, yes,” Elio said. “See? I told you? This is….this means….”  
“Shh, you don’t have to say anything. I know, I know,” Oliver said. Maybe this soulmate rap wasn’t all Hallmark, not the way Elio meant it. Something was afoot here, something that had set him free when thoughts about his sexuality had brought him nothing but depression for years.   
Oliver got in bed, standing on his knees between Elio’s open legs. They looked at each other, and a wave passed between them, of not only desire but understanding. Oliver hoped Elio understood, at least , that he wasn’t going anywhere. He doffed his sweatshirt, which was emblazoned with the initials of the college he had applied to because it was far from New York City, far from his father. There were better schools in better places, places where no Civil War battles had ever been fought, where no African American had ever been held a slave, where he wouldn’t constantly find himself the only Jewish person in any given group of people, and he had to admit now he had chosen that school to run away from his family, his memories, and his father’s expectations. Where would he go now? The only sure thing was Elio.   
Elio’s hands trembled as he reached for Oliver’s blue t-shirt, as if he was shy to just rip it off.   
“Yeah, just pull it,” Oliver murmured. Elio did so.   
“Off, off, off,” he said, and they laughed, laughed for nothing, laughed for the sheer joy of being alive together. They pulled Oliver’s clothes off together, and he seized Elio in his arms with frantic want that mirrored Elio’s, earlier. They wound up with Elio’s back pressed to Oliver’s belly, Elio’s leg wound around Oliver to hold them together. Oliver grasped Elio’s hips and held his buttocks open with his hands as he entered him.  
Elio gasped. Oliver’s vision whited out. This wasn’t the wet embrace of a woman’s pussy, it was tighter, hotter, and Oliver was totally overwhelmed. He tried to go slow, so as not to hurt Elio, but in truth he felt like he was about to lose control.   
This was it. Elio had been inside him, he had been inside Elio. He now knew all that he had been denying himself, trying to change and hide from it. Time stretched like a newborn galaxy as it went on and on, both of them trying not to be the one to end it with a hasty climax. When Elio’s noises sounded more like pain than pleasure, Oliver pulled out and stroked his cock with the paste that Mafalda had brought, entering Elio again. The combination of the minty balm and Elio’s body sheathed tightly around him was too much, it sent waves of ecstasy through Oliver’s body, and those waves guided him as he fucked Elio harder, as he kissed his neck and shoulders, kissed him with teeth.  
“Stop,” Elio said. Oliver pulled out once more, they tumbled a bit, tangled in each other and scuffling for no prize, just needing a rougher touch. It was so heady, so exciting, such a release. Elio kissed him hard, and then began to lick and suck at the bite on Oliver’s shoulder, from earlier.  
“Is this…bonding?” Oliver asked.  
“Part of it,” Elio said. Whatever. It felt good. Elio’s mouth anywhere on him felt good.   
“I thought it was vampires that drank blood,” Oliver joked.  
“ ‘Vampire’ is a generic term, popularized by Victorian English novelists who had plundered Eastern European legend. There are many names for what we are. Varcolac, Vkodlak, Strigoi, Benandanti,” Elio said, as he bit into the pre-existing wound on Oliver’s shoulder.  
“Will this make me a werewolf?” Oliver asked.  
“I can’t do that. Only a Maladanti could, and I am not that,” Elio said. “but, this is part of the bonding, to taste each other like this.”  
He wiped Oliver’s blood from his mouth.  
“Do you need it to live?” Oliver asked.  
“No. I’m not like that. It’s just….a desire. Do you hate me?” Elio asked.  
“I could never hate you,” Oliver asked. Really, he rationed, it was no different to swallowing Elio’s cum when he blew him, and they hadn’t gotten there but he definitely wanted to. Elio had swallowed his, and now he had tasted his blood, too. He kissed him, and with his tongue scanned Elio’s mouth for the taste of him, for the taste of silver. He felt like he’d failed Elio, that he couldn’t bite him back, that he had no desire to taste his blood too, except out of a certain reciprocal curiosity. But, Elio could be who he was with him, and he would never guilt him or deny him.   
Elio lay beneath him, and Oliver entered him again. He was usually on top with Daphne, but this was different than being with Daphne. He felt at home with Elio, apart of him, one with him. The only thing hindering their total alchemy into one was that he was worried that he was hurting Elio. Judging by how wonderfully tight he was, he had never done this before. Oliver wasn’t the kind of guy to shun a virgin, but he didn’t want to hurt Elio. Elio shook in his arms, but he was sure it was because he felt good. Elio murmured nonsense, curse words when he spoke in English, but mostly it was French and Italian.  
He repeated one phrase warningly, again and again, and Oliver figured out what he was trying to tell him when Elio came, his semen hitting Oliver’s chest in a hot, viscous, white spurt. He continued to shudder afterwards, and Oliver kissed him and touched his hair lovingly. He was so sweaty.  
Elio pawed at his ass, urging him faster, deeper, and when he slipped a finger, then another, inside Oliver he was done for. Though Elio’s fingers were nowhere near his prostate, the sheer surprise at his touch there turned the lingering soreness into a pleasurable sting, and his entire lower body was in frantic bliss. He pulled out, and came on Elio’s stomach and chest, he needed to see his cum on Elio, and maybe this was his answer to Elio’s hunger to mark him with bites. They belonged to each other, and Elio was the only place he had ever belonged.  
Daphne must be gone now, he realized as he pulled out and they snuggled into each other. Claude, Fernando, Zelenia, and Masanori would look after her. Was he selfish? Did it matter? He pulled Elio closer, and, finally, slept.


	10. Chapter 10

From his bedroom window, Elio could see the garden, with its statues of the gods of Mt. Olympus. Balthasar Luna and Zelenia, Elio’s aunt, were strolling there. His shoulders were heavy with sadness, her stride was graceful and composed. Elio’s aunt reminded him of the American actress Katharine Hepburn, she had an androgynous strength and exuded strength of personality. He wondered why she was afraid she had failed him. She had accepted him without question when it was discovered he was a Benandanti. He was young and vulnerable then, and a Maladanti had sensed his burgeoning transformation and psychically attacked him. Zelenia and Mafalda, her housekeeper, a skilled herbalist and healer, had tended Elio through the fevers and nightmares and helped him develop the proper mental defenses. He didn’t always have the patience to meditate but focusing on his music helped. Nothing had touched his mental barriers so intimately until he met Oliver Wolffstan. And that wasn’t an attack, it was love.  
Elio lay on Oliver’s chest, feeling complete and peaceful, as he never had before. The man beneath him had a stronger, more mature body, fit and firm but not overly muscular. Elio relished all that masculine solidity. He hoped Marzia wasn’t disappointed that she wasn’t his soulmate. She seemed so genuinely taken with the visiting prince, he doubted she would mind too much. The carnival was coming to an end, and Elio hoped that meant the Maladanti would slacken off. Of course he was horrified that so many humans had been attacked, but it felt far away, something that had happened in a distant past, like the wreck of the Titanic.  
Oliver mumbled in his sleep.  
“Are you awake?” Elio whispered.  
Oliver’s eyelashes fluttered, but he didn’t wake. Elio continued to play with his chest hair, and for the first time he noticed the gold Magen David around his neck. He began to play with it. Elio’s father was Jewish, too, and it was his wish that Elio learn about his religion as well as his mother’s, which was a mish mash of Catholicism and beliefs older than the church, older than the Roman Empire, maybe. As old as Europe, dating to the days before the invasions of herders and horsemen who had overpowered the agrarian indigenous people just as their thunder-hurling father gods had overpowered the primordial mother goddesses of vegetation and fertility. He was surrounded by the folklore of his mother’s family, the Viscontis, but felt he knew less about Judaism. His thirteenth year had been interrupted by the signs that he was a Benandanti- migraine headaches, “spells” that resembled epilepsy, so no Hebrew school or Bar Mitzvah, and then he left his parents’ home. A poet had written that love resembled everything you had lost returned to you. Oliver had brought him a little piece of himself he had never properly gotten to hold onto, he was wearing it around his neck.  
Elio leaned in and kissed the Star of David.  
Oliver stroked the back of his neck. That was all it took. Elio felt weakened with need to be as close to Oliver as possible, closer than they were now, Oliver inside him, or to be inside of Oliver. He felt like Heathcliff, when he had uttered, “I can’t live without my life, I can’t live without my soul…” But, that was after Cathy had died. Oliver was with him, and despite what had happened to his friends, he wouldn’t leave him.

Elio’s mother hadn’t left the palazzo. She and her husband lived companionably separate lives, they were best friends, but they had never been a passionate couple. Annella knew that Sam was attracted to men, and wondered why he didn’t act on it. She would be the last person to scorn him for it, and in fact, it would be something of a relief. Now that Elio was out of their home, she assumed he would relish the opportunity to pursue what he really wanted. In any case, she hadn’t seen her son at the carnival ball, and then news spread round of the Maladanti’s attack. She had been frantic for Elio, who had been mentally attacked by them once before. Mafalda came up to her, and Annella feared her son had been targeted again. But, it was something else.  
“Elio has bonded with a human,” Mafalda said.  
“What? What human?” Annella said.  
“I don’t know. A big German boy with an American accent, he is upstairs with him, now. He wants to transform, but the human’s energy isn’t properly aligned with his,” Mafalda said.  
“Of course not, because he can’t transform,” Annella said. “Is he in pain?”  
“He is stable. I think time alone with his…..new friend will help. But, where is this going to go?” Mafalda said.  
It was different for her, she knew. She was the sort of dinner conversation psychic who experienced déjà vu and certain success predicting what song would play next on the radio, or who was on the phone before she answered. Her son, on the other hand, was a werewolf. How could he have a life with a human? She had to speak to her sister, whom she had trusted with her son.  
“Zelenia doesn’t know,” Mafalda said.  
“Well, perhaps she should,” Annella said, and strode out to the garden.  
“Zelenia!” she called. “Is it true that there’s a big German in my son’s room?”  
Balthasar Luna, who looked handsome but ill, and Zelenia turned around.  
“Annella, dear, is everything quite all right?” Zelenia said.  
“Mafalda tells me that Elio has bonded with a human,” Annella said.  
“Elio had a guest over. He turned out to be one of the humans staying at the hostel that was attacked. This is the first I heard about him bonding. Would I not have felt such a thing?” Zelenia said.  
“One would think you would feel a swarm of Maladanti within the city. Perhaps you’ve been distracted,” Annella said tartly.  
“Annella, it was my fault that Zelenia didn’t know about the Maladanti. They accosted Marzia, and when she and Elio came to me, I advised them not to say anything to your sister so that she could focus on the night ahead of her,” Balthasar said.  
“So that she could focus…on a party?” Annella said witheringly. “Not only is my son spending the night with strange men, he was endangered by your inattention. Just what is it you do here, Zelenia?”  
“Annella, go inside, and if you are so concerned for your son why don’t you hold a conversation with him, for once?” Zelenia said coldly.  
Annella glared at her sister and stalked inside.  
“Forgive me,” Balthasar said.  
“Don’t, don’t,” Zelenia said. “Call me cold, but it all could have been much worse. I feel badly for those humans at the hostel, but it is not our territory. The village is, and you drove them out of the village. I thank you. I had no idea that the boy was here, with Elio, until Claude and Fernando brought his girlfriend here, and Marzia confirmed that this Oliver they were looking for had come to the palazzo with Elio. Do you think what Annella says is true?”  
“Bonding with a human has been known to happen,” Balthasar said.  
“Yes. But why would Mafalda tell Annella, and not me, what was happening to Elio?” Zelenia said. Did someone in their coven feel that, despite the fact that she wasn’t a werewolf, Annella would be a better Donna? She was older, and looked so much like their mother, had her aloof femininity. Zelenia was what the Jungian analyst Jean Shinoda Bolen called a Hestia archetype- a low maintenance spiritualist. She much preferred Yoga retreats to Milan fashion week, but this was Italy and the expectations for women were glamorously old fashioned. And, that was Annella in a nutshell.  
Balthasar looked at her with empathy, as if breaking hard news. “Because she’s his mother.”

Oliver woke up. He wanted to know more about how bonding would work.  
“So, do we stay in bed all forty eight hours?” Oliver asked.  
“I wouldn’t mind that at all. I mean, I have nowhere to be,” Elio said.  
“I don’t know if I do, either. Daph must have gone off with that Hunter,” Oliver said. “Shit, I should text her.”  
“Of course-she is your girlfriend,” Elio said.  
“Was,” Oliver corrected.  
“Because she won’t have you. If she would have you back, then what?” Elio asked.  
“No. You led me here, Elio, and I never thought of not following you. When you kissed me, I felt…liberated,” Oliver said.  
“I was sure about you, too. I felt you,” Elio said.  
Oliver smiled. When he was happy he looked younger, and even more handsome. Elio began writing Oliver’s name in his heart, like a girl sitting at her desk writing it in a notebook. With his fingertip he wrote Oliver’s name on Oliver’s arm, just to tickle him.  
“So…Wolffstan. That’s a very ominous surname, all things considered,” Elio said.  
“Yeah. Kismet, right?” Oliver said. “It’s German.”  
“And so are you, presumably?” Elio said.  
“Uh-huh. And Russian. Um, Ukrainian. I think it’s a place that’s now Ukraine and used to be Russia. Who knows. But, yeah, considering that I was destined to meet you, kind of a coincidence, isn’t it?” Oliver agreed.  
“It’s the name of a fortress. It might be where your friends are being taken, now. It was a castle owned by a nobleman who was a Benandanti, and left the castle to the Hunters to aid in the fight against the Maladanti,” Elio said.  
“Is this going to be like Jane Eyre? Or some other Gothic novel where a cultural or economic disparity between two lovers is solved by digging up an ancestral tie that will bridge the gap?” Oliver said. “It’s just a name-I’m not a werewolf, Elio.”  
“Too bad. I think you would love howling at the moon,” Elio said.  
“You really howl at the moon?” Oliver laughed.  
“Well, to us, she is a goddess. We sing to her,” Elio said. “The moon brought us together, Oliver.”  
“Then I’m grateful to her. She’s a merciful goddess,” Oliver said. They kissed. Elio was hard, but Oliver was exhausted. He had woken up in the middle of the night to Elio kissing his neck while paint brushing his cock against the cleft of Oliver’s ass, trying to stifle his moans by biting his lip so as not to wake his lover. He was wracked by sudden, intense waves of arousal, and sounded near tears.  
“Fuck me,” Oliver whispered to him. These words earned a gasp from Elio, who had clearly experienced a spike in arousal, even though he was already so needy.  
“Please, please, fuck me, Elio,” Oliver moaned, and began stroking himself.  
“No. But I’ll make love to you,” Elio said.  
“What’s the difference?” Oliver said.  
“Your eyes. When we make love, I look into your eyes,” Elio said.  
He meant it. Oliver was American, and from up North. He was used to self preserving sarcasm. Even when he went down south for college, he found the shared culture of television and the web had eroded the famed hospitality of the region, and even those with a gravy thick Mid Atlantic southern accent had mastered the art of eye rolling, deflecting, and passive aggressive mockery. Elio’s openness and honesty was so different than what he knew. It struck his heart like an arrow, and he reveled in this feeling that he was pierced and wounded now. It allowed him to feel just how much he had wanted to love someone, to drop the act everyone had picked up from teen movies and MTV, pop music and the antics of celebrities, this one-upmanship and evasion that existed in how he had talked to everyone else his whole life.  
Oliver lay on his back.  
“You prefer it this way?” Elio asked.  
Oliver hesitated. God, if his father knew just how complete and mindlessly satiated he felt with a cock up his ass. A younger man’s cock. Elio was just 18. For the first time since they had begun making love, Oliver was revolted at himself and felt like he was the kind of man his father had described with disgust: a pervert, a predator. But Elio was looking at him with those earnest eyes , and wanted only an answer. Not to ridicule him, just to know him better.  
“I do. But I love being inside you, too,” Oliver said.  
Elio smiled. “You will have me again. But, this is what we both need, now. Tell me if it hurts. I never want to hurt you, my love,” he said.  
“My love,” Oliver echoed. He touched himself, he couldn’t help it, he was hard and needed Elio. His lower body was eager for Elio, he could feel his anus pulsing, contracting and opening, as if Elio was already inside him and he was accepting his cock. The anticipation was getting him excited, and his emptiness was a pleasure in itself. When he was filled, he would feel even better.  
“Don’t hold back. You need this,” Oliver said.  
Elio nodded. He bowed his head, his messy but thick and lustrous shoulder length dark brown hair veiling his face. He held his cock, and positioned it between Oliver’s buttocks. He guided himself in, and Oliver watched his body accept Elio’s cock. He cried out and tugged at his cock.  
“Elio….” Oliver cried out.  
“My Oliver….I’ve never…..I…” Elio struggled to talk as he thrust hard and deep, breathing frantically.  
“Tell me later?” Oliver said.  
“I’ve never been with a man before. Did I tell you that? Only you. Only…you,” Elio said.  
This made Oliver’s heart flood with feelings he didn’t know he was capable of. It was lightning striking him, and burning him inside out.  
“Elio….me too. You’re the only one,” Oliver said.  
Elio came, and the warmth of his semen flooding Oliver’s body, inside him, was a pleasure he had never guessed at, that pornography hadn’t prepared him for. Oliver came on his own chest, and to his surprise Elio licked the hot, viscous fluid from his chest, mewling in pleasure.  
“I’m hungry,” Elio said.  
“That’s all I got,” Oliver sighed.  
“No! For bread, and wine,” Elio said.  
“Maybe we can go out to a bakery,” Oliver said. “you can show me around the village.”  
“All we need is right here,” Elio said.  
He had no desire to put his carnival costume back on, so instead he put on his underwear, and Oliver’s jeans and sweatshirt.  
“Hey!” Oliver protested.  
“I have to wear something,” Elio said.  
He stood up, and found that his body felt loose and relaxed, as if he had finished working out. He looked back at Oliver, who had quickly dozed off to sleep. The house was empty and seemed to be dozing after the party the night before. Today was the last day of the carnival, and the next day would be, for the majority Catholic population, Ash Wednesday, on which the faithful went to the cathedral to be blessed by the priest with ashes on their foreheads. Lent was soon to begin, in just hours, after one final day of gluttony and vice. Funny that fate had led him to Oliver, and they had been devouring each other for several hours now, during these days when hunger and lust of all kinds was sanctioned by the Church calendar, which was really a far more ancient calendar pasted over with papal law.  
Elio went to the wine cellar, and chose a sweet Greek wine called mavrodaphne. Then, he remembered that Oliver’s ex-girlfriend was named Daphne, and it might be an awkward coincidence. He had been told more than once that other people don’t pay attention to small details like that as much as he did. But, Elio felt like his sensitivity to details made life more beautiful and enjoyable to him. He went to the kitchen, and found some bread, cheese, and fruit.  
“Elio!” Mafalda said. “Stop sneaking around! Your mother and aunt want to talk to you about that boy in your room.”  
“What? I’m 18! It’s none of their business,” he said.  
“This is your aunt’s house. And your mother will always be your mother. Go, explain yourself! Explain what I found last night,” Mafalda said.  
“Why does this have to be a big scene?” Elio said.  
“You have to explain just what you are feeling, and we will decide if you are really bonded to this human,” Mafalda said.  
“I know that I am. Anyway, I don’t need anyone poking me and prodding me and deciding what I am, ever again,” Elio said, and with his arms full of food, he went back upstairs to his room.  
There was so much he wanted to tell Oliver about. He felt they understood each other perfectly, even though they had spent most of their time making love. Oliver had seen him transform and hadn’t left. His girlfriend had burst in, and he hadn’t left. He felt safer with him than he had felt in a while.  
But, when he reached his room, Oliver was gone.

Oliver fell asleep. He dreamed about the waterfall that Willem had shown him. The roaring water beckoned to him, and he could hear it but not see it. He thought he caught a glimpse through the trees, but he walked and couldn’t find the path.  
Willem stepped through the trees, onto Oliver’s path.  
“I think I’m lost,” Oliver said.  
“Are you looking for him?” Willem said, and though he knew that Willem meant Elio, he had the feeling that he shouldn’t say Elio’s name to him.  
“I’m looking for the falls,” Oliver said.  
“I’ll take you to them,” Willem said.  
He vaguely remembered the attack on the hostel, the animal, the Maladanti. He wanted to tell Willem that he was glad that he was okay, but that didn’t seem appropriate in the same way he couldn’t speak Elio’s name.  
He followed Willem, as he had the morning before he met Elio. At the time, he had trusted Willem completely, and was excited by his presence. He tried to make himself forget kissing him and swimming nude with him, once he was back at Daphne’s side, and then, he met Elio and everything changed. Now, once more, he was following Willem.  
“Do you remember how beautiful the waterfall was?” Willem asked.  
“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Oliver said.  
“I knew you would appreciate it. That you would feel the appropriate awe. It’s a rare human that doesn’t want to conquer nature. Who can just love her, worship her the same way that we do. You don’t have anything to prove, Oliver,” Willem said. “And I like that.”  
“Thanks, I guess,” Oliver laughed. “I like you too, Willem. Don’t think that I don’t. I should’ve come back. I feel like all I do is let people down, sometimes.”  
“Not me. You did come back to me, Oliver. Here we are,” Willem said.  
They pushed some branches out of their way, and the waterfall came in sight. Oliver breathed in the smell of pine and mist. Willem rested his hands on his shoulders, and then he kissed his neck.  
“I can’t,” Oliver said.  
“Because of him?” Willem said.  
Again, he seemed to be urging Oliver to say Elio’s name.  
Willem continued to kiss Oliver’s neck, and caress his back, his belly, his ass. His hands were more confident and controlled than Elio’s, less passionate but more possessive. Oliver couldn’t help responding to Willem, the first man to touch him this way. He remembered swimming nude with him in the pool beneath the falls, and kissing him on the mossy boulders by the water. It was his first experience of any kind with a man, and Oliver was falling into those memories, and into Willem’s touch. He reached out, and instead of the wet, feathery boughs of the evergreens around them, Oliver felt his hand make contact with something cold, round, and hard.  
A vase fell, crashing to the ground and spilling water and daisies. He looked around. They weren’t in the forest outside the hostel. Oliver was standing, completely naked, in Fernando’s bookstore/ café, with Willem. But, he didn’t remember leaving the Palazzo Visconti.  
He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but the words died on his tongue as Willem sank his teeth into his neck. They were sharp, as sharp as the talons on Elio’s claws when he was a wolf.  
“I chose you, Oliver. This is a gift,” Willem said into the wound, holding Oliver close to him in a grip he couldn’t escape, though he struggled. Then, he lost the strength to struggle. He felt cold and almost peaceful. Willem was killing him. What could he do about it? He knew a werewolf’s strength, and he couldn’t fight him off. Oliver knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had wasted his life until he met Elio. He had wanted to please his father so much he had been lying to himself for a long time. He said things he didn’t mean to be a good boy, then did things he didn’t believe in to rebel against his own bad choices. He had involved Daphne in the lie that he lived so that he wouldn’t be what his father railed against. When he met Elio, he learned that it wasn’t worth it. He was just grateful that God and fate and the moon had brought him to Elio before it was too late, and even if it was just for two days out of 24 years, he knew what it was like to be loved and accepted, understood, and free.  
He could barely hear anything going on around him. He was fading away as Kenji Masanori and Elio burst into the café, as Kenji fired a crossbow bolt into Willem’s back, and his injured body slumped to the floor, releasing his hold. He lay there, feeling peaceful. When Elio rushed to his side and he looked into his eyes, he thought somehow they were both in Heaven.

“How did this happen?” Daphne demanded. They were in the library of the palazzo. She looked at Elio with fiery eyes, as if this was all his fault.  
Kenji Masanori answered. “Oliver was compelled. It means he was mentally manipulated into walking out of the Visconti Palazzo, and walking into the Maladanti’s trap.”  
“What the Hell?” Daphne said.  
“Then, once he was at the café, the Maladanti bit him with the intent to turn him into one of them,” Kenji said.  
“Why?’ Daphne said.  
“It seems he had chosen him,” Kenji said, with a shrug. Daphne sat on the couch, shocked by all this, and the Hunter sat beside her with his arm around her.  
“What happens now?” Elio asked.  
“He’ll come to Castle Wulfstan, and we’ll give him the same treatment as your friends,” Kenji said, and he sounded exhausted.  
“No! He has to stay here. We’re soulmates. We’ve bonded,” Elio said.  
“I respect that. I do. But he’s going to be a danger to himself and others,” Kenji said.  
“He’s the most gentle man I’ve ever known,” Elio said.  
“As awkward as this is..I agree. Ollie’s a big softie. He loves dogs, and his favorite movie is “E.T”, and he’s never even been in a fight in his life. Its why I like him. He’s smart, and gentle….like James Dean or something,” Daphne said. “If he does become a werewolf, trust me he’ll be harmless, like Remus Lupin.”  
“You guys, its not that simple,” Kenji said. “Elio, unlike your people, the Benandanti, the Maladanti are able to infect humans with lycanthropy. Right now, we are treating Oliver with all the preventative measures we have available to us at this time, but there’s still a strong chance that he’s infected.”  
“Why can’t I see him?” Elio said. He had never begged for much. His father had taught him to be kind to others, patient with himself, and open to the universe. His mother prized different qualities. She had taught him to be proud. He never thought he would beg for anything in his life, but he would beg Kenji Masanori to let him see Oliver, at the Hunters’ smaller, temporary outpost before the victims of the hostel attack could be moved to Castle Wulfstan. Wulfstan-Oliver’s last name, but spelled differently. The coincidence they had spoken about earlier. And Elio had joked that Oliver would have fun as a werewolf, howling at the moon. He felt so guilty about that, now.  
“Sweetheart, he’s just not stabilized. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’m worried sick about Ollie too,” Daphne said.  
“I’m so sorry,” Elio said. They both knew he was apologizing for his affair-if a span of a few hours could be called that-with Oliver.  
Daphne hugged him. “It’s okay, babe. I found some gay porn on the Tumblr app on his phone six months ago. I’ve been waiting for him to man up and say something since then.”  
Elio and Daphne both laughed. As with Marzia, he felt close to her. In that moment, they became friends, real friends, Elio was sure. She squeezed his hand.  
“Hey-those are Ollie’s clothes,” she pointed out.  
“Yeah. They smell like him,” Elio said.  
“Hey, Kenji, why don’t you scare up some brunch for me and Elio?” Daphne said.  
“Maybe because that’s not my job,” Kenji said, bristling at being sent on an errand.  
“Its called a favor,” Daphne said.  
“We’re in his house! Don’t they have servants? Can’t he ring a bell for one of them?” Kenji said. “Anyway, brunch? Really?”  
“I thought you two liked each other,” Elio said, bemused.  
“Mr. Big, Bad Werewolf Hunter thinks I should be taking an extended nap or something. Oh, and he wants me to leave Italy. No dice, as long as Dan, Jen, and Ollie are here recovering,” Daphne said.  
Elio had the feeling that Daphne could be relentless, in an unfailingly cheerful way. It was starting to take its toll on Hunter Masanori, who looked annoyed.  
“You can’t stay here all that time. Fortresses aren’t hospitals. Family and friends can’t visit. You’re not even supposed to know as much as you do,” Kenji said. “I let a civilian way too close to this thing.”  
“Too bad you can’t just wipe my mind, like in ‘Men in Black’,” Daphne said.  
“Oh, if only,” Kenji said.  
“I wish I could forget it all, too,” Elio said.  
Daphne had been having a good time teasing Kenji. She was, Elio saw, the kind of person who felt better once they had a game plan. Her game plan was staying in Italy, and finagling her way into Castle Wulfstan in the Italian Alps so that she could keep tabs on Dan, Jen, and Oliver. Elio felt desolate. The bonding period wasn’t over, he needed his lover, needed to hold him and feel his warmth, share dreams and thoughts and echoes of emotions with him. Although it was early spring and some warmth was beginning to return to the air, Elio felt like it was midwinter, and he couldn’t get warm.  
“He’s in good hands, Elio,” Kenji said.  
Elio believed him, but he wished Oliver was in his arms.  
“Elio.”  
He turned around. His aunt was in the doorway.  
“Forgive me for intruding. But, gather your things, dearest. The palazzo is being shut up, we are moving to the Villa,” she said, and turned to Daphne and said, “You are welcome to stay with us there, in the Villa. I hear you have no plans to return to the U.S.”  
“Thank you, Ms. Visconti,” Daphne said.  
They were returning to the countryside, not far from the hostel, from the waterfalls, from where Elio had first seen Oliver. For those gathered in the Palazzo Visconti, the Carnival of the Beast was over.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here begins the material that once comprised part two, but here it is one draft.

So much had happened. Daphne begged Fernando and Claude frantically to take her to the hostel after seeing that news bulletin. They wanted to protect her from the grisly truth, but Elettra prevailed and convinced them. Thank God, she and Daphne had understood each other at once: they were women who faced things head on. She had taken off Claude’s elaborate carnival ball costume and thrown on some cargo pants, a camisole, and a college sweatshirt, and they headed to the outskirts of the village.  
There, Daphne met Kenji Masanori for the first time.   
“My friends are in there!” she said, as she tried to rush into the building. She saw the black vans that were like ambulances but not, and the men dressed as Kenji was, in what looked like SWAT team uniforms, but she didn’t care enough to be curious or suspicious. Like Elvis said, fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and she knew she had been foolish. The Ugly American she had warned Ollie not to be with all his questions about local folklore. But she was the one who had dragged them to an obscure town in the foothills of the Alps, rather than stick to the beaten path. The path was beaten for a reason. She didn’t want to see the lame, by rote, Rick Steves approved ruins, cathedrals, museums, ooh and awe and go home. But, her Lucy Honeychurch routine had gotten her friends scattered, hurt, and worse.  
She made for the door but Kenji caught her in his arms and said, “Then your friends aren’t in such good shape right now.”  
She hadn’t seen Dan and Jen, but from what Kenji described was happening to them, they were in a lot of pain and would never be the same.  
“This is all my fault,” Daphne said, not even sparing a glance at the scenery outside the car, the morning lit countryside on the way to the Villa Visconti.  
“Yeah? Which part?” Kenji asked.  
That took her by surprise. She expected him to tell her this wasn’t her fault.   
“All of it! All my friends are werewolves because I dragged them to some little village I read about online! I’m so stupid,” Daphne said.  
“You know, Hunters have a saying. Its not one of our official mottoes, just kind of part of the jargon,” Kenji said.  
“What is it?” Daphne asked.  
“If you think you made a mistake, don’t do it next time,” he said.  
“Oh, okay. The next time I go on a vacation with my best friend, her boyfriend, and my boyfriend….oh, wait, I don’t have to worry about that because they aren’t human anymore,” Daphne said.  
Kenji sighed. He was losing his patience with her. She realized how different he was to Ollie. Being with the same guy for a while spoiled a girl, and she expected all men to be whatever he was. Ollie always listened to her patiently. She could sometimes feel his attention drifting, and he sometimes agreed with her when he didn’t mean it, but she let these things slide because behind it all she could feel his desire to hear her out. They had fought more than they ever had in Italy, and it had taken her by surprise. She now saw it was because he had met someone else. She had heard her mom and aunts say that men get “ornery” when there’s someone else in the picture, finding fault with their current partner because they really just want to leave.   
“Look, I get this is a lot to process. Maybe you were right, that its too soon for you to go home,” Kenji said.  
“Well, it was really generous for Ms..I mean, Signorina Visconti to let me stay at her Villa,” Daphne said.  
“It’s not going to be enough for you,” Kenji said.  
“Excuse me?” Daphne said.   
“You need to be near your friends. And I think you’d make more trouble for us if you aren’t allowed to see them,” Kenji said.  
“I’m trouble, am I ?” Daphne said.  
“I think you could be,” Kenji said. “And I don’t usually believe in appeasement, but…what if I could get you into Castel Wulfstan?”  
“How? You said no visitors were allowed,” She said.  
“No, but we could say you’re under observation, and need to be looked at for signs of lycanthropy,” Kenji said.  
“But, I wasn’t bitten,” Daphne said.  
“No, which means you don’t have to worry about physical lycanthropy. But, we could say its possible you were psychically compelled by one of the Maladanti that attacked the hostel and staked out the village. Its not unfathomable. Something made you want to come to that place. Its really out of the way. Maybe you were being influenced from the start. In that case, we would have to evaluate you, and do our best to restore your mind,” Kenji said.  
“What? You mean some werewolf could have hypnotized me into wanting to see the carnival? Into going to the village at all?” Daphne said. “Why me?”  
“You’re not special. They want human blood, any human. But any stranger is more vulnerable than someone from the region who’s grown up hearing the old legends. Forewarned is forearmed. Superstition can enslave us with needless ritual, but it can be, and was originally intended to be, vigilance against invisible forces. The villagers know about the abilities of the Maladanti, and have prayers and incantations and such that serve as a psychic barrier. Tourists don’t know to be bothered with it all. Plus, a lot of people in that region are descended from Benandanti, and might have inherent psychic capabilities themselves,” Kenji explained.  
“Like Caro! Elettra’s son. He said he thought he was a werewolf, but it turned out he wasn’t,” Daphne said.  
“Well, he may be a Benandanti in other ways. It isn’t just the ability to turn into a wolf. In fact, in the middle ages, the psychic gifts were more prized because it allowed them to ward off psychic attacks on humans by the Maladanti. Did you study “The Crucible” by Arthur Miller in high school?” Kenji asked.  
“Yeah. You did too?” Daphne said.  
“Of course! Why are you surprised?” Kenji asked.  
“You’re from America, then,” she said.  
Kenji’s face became stony, and Daphne felt awkward, but she persisted. “No, not that, I mean you sound kinda British.”  
“Oh! I’ve been studying overseas for a long time…” Kenji said, and he sounded kind of homesick. It was the first vulnerability in his armor she had seen, but he was such a gruff, brusque man she decided not to ask any more personal questions.  
“Anyway, yeah, I think I know what you mean. The witches were accused of coming into people’s dreams and terrorizing them while they slept,” Daphne said.  
“Right! Well, the Maladanti did such things, and the Benandanti used the same mental powers to drive them away. They called themselves the Wolves of God, and believed it was their duty to protect humans,” Kenji said.  
“Lupus Dei. Caro mentioned that phrase,” Daphne said.  
Kenji smiled. “This Caro sounds really smart,” he said.  
“He’s a great kid,” Daphne said. “So, basically the good wolves and the bad wolves used to slug it out all around these parts back in the olden times?”  
Kenji almost laughed. She saw it! “More or less. But, between the 12th and 16th century, many Benandanti were accused of being witches, and put to death,” he said.  
“That’s not fair! Weren’t they protecting humans?” Daphne said.  
“Look at it this way-it was the Middle Ages. Humans blamed witchcraft for everything-illness, infant mortality, bad crops, political strife. They were encouraged to do so by the Church, the most powerful geopolitical body in the Western world. And, they just didn’t know there was this psychic war going on while they slept. When they found evidence that someone around them was worshipping a pre-Christian goddess in the woods, it sounded like what they had always been told witchcraft was: people congregating in the dark, worshipping idols. Sounded sinister to the medieval mind,” Kenji said.  
Daphne said nothing. She felt desolate, all of a sudden.  
“What’s wrong? Does all this creep you out?” Kenji asked.  
“No. It’s not that. It’s nothing. It’s stupid,” Daphne said.  
“You call yourself stupid a lot for someone who catches onto new things so quickly,” Kenji said.  
“You’ve faced this all bravely.”  
“Thanks,” Daphne said. It was the first nice thing he had said to her since they met. She owed him, for that, so she told him what was on her mind. “It’s just that, you sound so much like Ollie. He’s an anthropology major. I think he’d like to specialize in Folklore, but his dad would shit bricks.”  
“Why?” Kenji said.  
“That’s just who he is. He’s a lawyer in New York, with a bunch of big fancy clients, he doesn’t get the life that Ollie wants: to travel the world, and record things before all the people who believe them die and write about them in scholarly journals and books and such. He’s the kind of person who studies things because they love them and doesn’t care about money. I really like that. I mean, Richmond isn’t New York, but it can be status conscious in its own way. I’m sick of people who do things because that’s the way you do it, and never do anything their own way, and look down on others because of money or tradition or prejudice,” Daphne said. “I used to tell Ollie I liked him because he was different, but I think he thought I meant because he was Jewish, and from up north, and liberal, and all that stuff. I just like….the way he is.”  
“Sounds like you know him very well,” Kenji said.  
“Are you being a smart ass?” Daphne said. “Because clearly I didn’t really know him.”  
“Right. The Visconti kid. Ahh…..sorry,” Kenji said.  
“Its okay. I mean, I found some stuff on his phone, so I knew maybe he was…..questioning his sexuality?” Daphne said. “I don’t know. Why am I telling you this stuff?”  
“It’s okay if you need to talk about Oliver. We don’t know what’s going to happen with his recovery. Something tells me that whatever happens with the two of you, all that matters to you is that he’s healthy,” Kenji said.  
“Oh, because you know me so well...?” Daphne said. Kenji glanced over at her, and saw that she was just teasing.   
“You’re about as subtle as a car crash,” Kenji said. “So, yeah, I haven’t had much trouble picking up on your motives.”  
“I think I prefer ‘breath of fresh air’ to car crash, thank you very much,” Daphne said.   
“No, I’ll stick with car crash,” Kenji said. “you love him, he’s in a bad way, so you’re worried about him. Doesn’t make you a fool. T.H. White said, ‘Perhaps we all give the best of our hearts uncritically, to those who hardly think about us in return’.”  
Daphne finally turned her gaze to the scenery. It was uncanny, how the rolling verdant fields and small groves of young trees were so much like Virginia. It had the same look of green lowland. They weren’t as close to the mountains as they had been in the village. This was a place like her hometown, where the rivers tumbled down from the mountains and lost their wild turbulence as the land sloped down into a peaceful basin. She was discombobulated to find familiar scenery so far away. She thought of what Kenji said. Had she thrown herself away on Oliver? Had he ever really known her the way she knew his dreams, his talents, and his limitations? Had she been so vain that she called his reliable acquiescence love and devotion while all the while he was just phoning it in and ticking boxes, hiding what he really wanted? Something told her that Elio really was the first person he had cheated on her with, but why not just date guys at college since he was going to school out of state? His father, no matter what a hard ass he was, was nowhere around.  
For a southern city, Richmond had a decent gay scene. As lesbian bars closed all around the country, the lesbian bar Babes of Carytown was thriving, and had become a mixed space where LGBTQIA people of all genders came for drinks, dancing, and “Ru Paul’s Drag Race” viewing parties. The most popular gay bar/club was Godfrey’s-their drag queen brunches were legendary, and it was a rite of passage even for straight kids to go clubbing there once they hit eighteen. The legacy of segregation in the south lived on unofficially in many ways, even in the nightlife, and the club Colors was frequented by LGBTQIA people of color. There was a Gay Pride celebration on Brown’s Island, an island in the James River that was a frequent concert destination, every Pride Month. If Oliver wanted to explore his sexuality in Richmond, he very well could have, spared himself the lies, and she would have…..  
Would have what? Dated a dick like Dan who stopped reading for fun after high school but always wanted to feel like the smartest guy in the room, anyway? Who wore the standard upper class southern uniform of boat or duck shoes, chinoes, and Ralph Lauren polo shirt? Who talked like a bit player in “In the Heat of the Night”? Who voted conservatively, went to a Baptist megachurch, and expected her to be the perfect smiling, dowdy Protestant wife when they graduated? Being with Oliver had, at least, spared her that.  
The Villa Visconti came in sight, a stone building that reminded her more of a French countryside chateau than one of the palazzos in the town they had left. It was a beautiful home, but the scenery around it was even more lovely, so green and luscious, well maintained but not too manicured.   
“Gosh, my mom would love this place! She drags us out to tour old houses whenever the tourism board runs a ‘Year of the Historic Home,’ where you don’t have to pay admission,” Daphne said, as Kenji parked in the drive.  
“Yeah? You’re from down south, right? Lots of Federalist architecture, or more Georgian?” Kenji asked.  
“Um, a mix of both, where I’m from. You like colonial architecture?” Daphne asked.  
“I studied to be an architect for a while. Before….going abroad,” he said. “What’s the most impressive place you’ve seen?”  
“Well, I haven’t seen it, but Monticello really broke the architectural mold,” Daphne said. “Naturally, I guess, since when Thomas Jefferson designed it the last thing he wanted was a Georgian or Federalist home.”  
“Complicated guy, Thomas Jefferson,” Kenji said.  
“Yeah, well, I hear the tour has been expanded to give visitors more information about the Hemmings family, and the lives of all the slaves at Monticello,” Daphne said.  
“That’s progress,” Kenji said. “You’re not stupid, Daphne. You know that, right?”  
“Well, I’m glad you don’t think so, anyway,” Daphne said. Zelenia Visconti was walking towards them, accompanied by her nephew, Elio. Elio was still wearing Oliver’s sweatshirt.   
Maybe it would be different if Elio were another woman. Then she could rip her earrings off and fight her like decades of country music, from Loretta Lynn to Carrie Underwood, suggested was the appropriate response. Or, maybe she could humble herself like Dolly Parton in “Jolene’ and beg this girl to just let Ollie alone so they could get married and have some big boned blonde babies with Mensa level IQs, and celebrate combined Christmas and Hanukkah like the Cohens on “The O.C’” with them. But, Elio was no Jolene. He was a man, but really not much more than a boy, with his bony wrists and big hands. An art teacher of her’s had once pointed out you can tell that Michelangelo’ David was an adolescent, because his hands were larger than his wrists. Elio had the adolescent hands, sweet face, and tousled curls of something Michelangelo would have rendered, in either paint or stone, and his expressive, almost glowing emerald eyes held a suckerpunched expression of love and pain. She was worried about Oliver, and she loved him. But, when she looked at Elio she wondered genuinely if this kid could live without him.   
Kenji cut the engine and they got out of the car.  
“Thank you for all your cooperation, Signorina Visconti,” Kenji began.  
“You’re supposed to call her ‘My Lady’. Preferable Ma Donna, but English is fine,” Elio said.  
“Thanks! I’d hate for word to get around that I have no manners,” Kenji said.  
Daphne stifled a giggle. She’d been so frustrated with him when they first met, but, as her grandma said, “You get used to a man’s ways.” If only women were so patient with each other, but that was probably another story.  
“Elio,” Zelenia said warningly. He lowered his gaze apologetically. ‘Jesus, Ollie. He still gets scolded by his elders for speaking out of turn. How could you sleep with him?’ Daphne thought.  
“How are you holding up, Elio?” Daphne asked.   
“Why don’t I show you around? We can talk,” he said.  
“Wonderful. Hunter Masanori and I will be in my study, Elio,” Zelenia said. Elio nodded, and he and Daphne headed to the orchard. As it was spring, there was no fruit yet, but the leaves on each tree was a robust green.  
“Beautiful. What kinds of trees are these?” Daphne asked.  
“Peaches. We have cherries, and pomegranates, too,” Elio said.  
“Wow. So, this place is a fruitcake just waiting to be mixed up and baked, basically?” Daphne said.  
Elio laughed, and Daphne knew it was a really dumb joke, but that it had caught him by surprise. She didn’t get to be silly like this with a lot of people. She didn’t get to be herself with a lot of people.  
“It’s very fruitful, yes,” Elio said, and though he was pale his skin had a rosy flush now, from laughing. He was a beautiful boy, indeed. But, eighteen or no, a boy all the same. She felt embarrassed for Oliver, that he had done this thing. Elio added, ‘You don’t hate me.’  
“No. I mean, I think if we were on home turf, I would. No one likes to lose in their hometown, babe,” Daphne said.  
“Fair enough,” Elio said. “If I was a student at your college, if we had all met at the homecoming parade, and I kissed your boyfriend in a victory party at a pub, you would scratch my eyes out, wouldn’t you? Don’t say otherwise. I can tell. But I like that about you. You wore the pants, didn’t you? You were the intrepid one, and he followed you about, amiable, supportive, happy to be in the background, the perfect male feminist lover?”  
“Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?” Daphne said.  
“Once or twice,” Elio said.  
“I don’t know, maybe there’s some truth to that. But….it wasn’t the whole story. I never had Ollie’s whole story, did I?” Daphne said.  
“Maybe I won’t, either,” Elio said, sadly.   
“Hey! We’ll see him. Soon. Kenji thinks he can get me into Castel Wulfstan, if we pretend I might have been psychically influenced by a Maladanti,” Daphne said.  
“Were you?” Elio said. “that happened to me once. When I was thirteen. Fighting it off was Hell.”  
“Hell doesn’t last forever,” Daphne said.  
Elio frowned, trying to place the familiarity of the words. “Hey! That’s from ‘Night’ by Elie Wiesel.”  
“Yup! That book changed my life,” Daphne said. “I’m a Poli Sci major now, but I want to get a law degree and do human rights law…You know, like Amal Clooney.” She went ahead and made the comparison before someone else did.  
“That’s amazing,” Elio said. “okay, you are an exemplary woman, and you have my permission to marry Oliver if you want to, so long as I can be his lover. We’ll have a rendezvous on the Riviera every summer. Bordighera is lovely….hmm, but Ventimiglia isn’t as crowded.”  
Daphne laughed. “I think that ship sailed. You must be what he wants, because I’ve never seen him act like this about anyone or anything.”  
“Really?” Elio said.  
“Yeah. You called it. He was so passive with me. I’d just told him, before all this happened, that he needed to stand up for himself more. Be more passionate. But, now I understand that he was holding a lot in,” Daphne said.  
“Not with me. I don’t mean to hurt you when I say this, but I saw a different side of him. He is passionate. But, also, tender. I’ve had lovers before. But, I’d never been with a man. Maybe I wasn’t brave enough to try that part of myself. Or maybe I was waiting for him. We connected instantly and fell deeper into our feelings as every hour passed. That’s all it was, hours, a night and a morning, but I feel like it made me whole. He’s the other half of me. I know this for certain. I just don’t know when we’ll see each other again,” Elio said.  
Daphne was humbled by his bravery. Elio was still young, younger than he realized, but she felt from him an inherent wisdom that came more from being open to experience than experience itself. She was afraid for him. How long would that last? Where would it lead? His confidence came from his purity, and what would it take to make him feel tarnished, compromised beyond recognition of himself? But, for all his youth and inexperience, here he was making a stand for his feelings, and his interpretation of his dynamic with Oliver. Daphne was 24, and had never heard anyone her own age talk of love so seriously. She was in awe of Elio, and wanted to protect him from the whole world all at the same time. It was like the random draw of these crazy events had gifted her with an instant little brother.  
“I can’t say it was ever like that with the two of us. I’ve never been with another man. I do love him, but maybe the way you love a good friend you can say anything to and be yourself with,” Daphne said “It’s more than that, with the two of you, I see that. It happened so fast!”   
“Well, that’s the way it is, for people like me,” Elio said. “We needed more time. When soulmates are separated during the bonding period, its like our thoughts race to find each other. Last night, I am sure I dreamed his dreams.”  
“And what is Oliver dreaming about?” Daphne said.  
“A waterfall in the foothills,” Elio said. “Somewhere you went together?”  
“No, not me, him and this guy from the hostel. Oh my God! That guy. He was the one who bit him. Willem,” Daphne said. “I mean, I knew it, Kenji told me, but for some reason it just really dawned on me.”  
“He is dreaming of the Maladanti who turned him into one of them,” Elio said.  
“Does that mean anything?” Daphne said.  
“It means that Willem is still alive, and that Oliver is bonded to him, in a different way than he is bonded to me. I’m his soulmate, but this Willem is his master, now,” Elio said.  
“Master? Sounds like something out of ‘Dracula’,” Daphne said.  
“Very much like that, yes. He compelled Oliver to come to him once. I know what it’s like, when they attack your mind. You can’t fight it…” Elio said, looking haunted.  
“But you did fight it. You told me so. And here you are now. And I can tell, no one is your master. You look like a sweet little thing, but you’re tough, don’t tell me different. Oliver is strong too-he’s the gentle kind of strong. He’s stronger than he realizes. And maybe stronger now, because he has you,” Daphne said.  
“Thank you. You’re lucky, you get to go to the fortress,” Elio said.  
“You have to come with me!” Daphne said.   
“I can’t. The moon is full this Friday. Our coven will be coming together,” Elio said.  
“To….turn into wolves?” Daphne said.  
“That’s generally how it goes, yes,” Elio said. Great, there was that little smart aleck that greeted them in the drive. That was the Elio they would need throughout this thing, through Ollie’s recovery, the cocky little shit with a big heart. But, Daphne could tell his experience with the Maladanti had left deep emotional scars.   
“Will Oliver turn into a wolf?” Daphne said.  
“I think in his soul, he already has,” Elio said. “instinct will lead him to seek his master.”  
“Then, he’s gonna be sorely disappointed. His master is being held at the fortress, and I can’t imagine he’ll ever be freed,” Kenji said, falling into step with them as the three of them, now, walked in the shade of the orchard.  
“Are you sure?” Elio said.  
“The case is good that he and his pack maliciously targeted the humans at the hostel, and he’s the only survivor, so he has to answer for their intentions and their actions,” Kenji said.  
“What do you do with a werewolf that attacks a human?” Daphne asked.  
“What do you do with any animal who attacks a human?” Kenji said.  
“We’re not animals,” Elio bristled.  
Kenji looked genuinely humbled and contrite, and said, “Sorry. I only meant, that Willem will be dealt with.”  
“See? It’s over, Elio. Now, we just have to wait and see what shape Ollie’s in. I’ll keep you updated,” Daphne said.

Elio believed Daphne. She didn’t hate him. In fact, she seemed to be turning to him for a certain solidarity. Perhaps it made sense, because they both loved Oliver. She seemed resigned to the idea that their relationship was over, and amenable to Elio’s presence in his life. But, he didn’t like those pitying looks she had unintentionally aimed at him during the course of their conversation. He wasn’t a ruined little innocent from an eighteenth century novel. Oliver hadn’t ravished him. They made love, and Elio was his soulmate. He wanted someone to respect that, and rush him to Oliver’s side, or at least allow him there. Not for the first time since turning eighteen, Elio felt like it wasn’t really the threshold to adulthood at all, only on paper, and he was still barred from all of life like a child.  
Elio went to his room. It smelled little used, a room that had forgotten what it is to hold people, but they’d only been at the palazzo for a few days. Strange. Maybe it was just unfamiliar to him. He knew he was the same person, but he felt different inside. The world was more beautiful and more frightening. He now knew what love was, love that felt molten and overpowering, and also he knew the fear that it could end at any minute. Accompanied by his love was the fear that Oliver would leave him and never come back, forget him, be forever out of reach, and Elio would be left to carry this love alone at the core of him, a child that would never be delivered. He was pregnant with this love.   
He wanted to sleep all day, and dream. In dreams, he could talk to Oliver, he could see his thoughts, they could make love and continue to bond as soulmates. Elio didn’t have to work too hard to drift off, he was exhausted, and soon fell asleep.   
“Come into the water,” Oliver beckoned, naked and cheerful, exhilarated as he once again swam beneath the falls, like when Elio had first seen him with Willem.  
“This is a dream, Oliver,” Elio said.  
He combed his wet hair away from his face with his big hands as water frothed around his torso. He shrugged one broad shoulder, and said, “So what? You’re here. It’s as real as I need it to be.”  
“He’s watching us. I can feel him,” Elio said. He surrendered to the water and to the dream, kissed Oliver, wrapped his legs around him and let Oliver’s hands and the water hold him. This felt so real. He could feel Oliver’s hard cock nestled into the cleft of his ass and rocked back and forth on it as best he could until, with a groan, Oliver grasped his cock and entered Elio.  
Across time and space, in a dream, they were making love, they were bonding, but Elio could feel the presence of the Maladanti watching them, lurking in their shared dream.


	12. Chapter 12

The water made Oliver feel weightless, but he held on tight to Elio, afraid to lose his grip of the other young man’s slight form. Elio was in his arms, and they were surrounded by beauty, the roaring waterfalls and the fragrant forest.   
“This is a dream, Oliver,” Elio said.  
“You’re here-its as real as I need it to be,” Oliver said.   
Elio’s body relaxed, and they kissed. From the first time, when he finally caught up with Elio at the village carnival, to the hungry kisses they had shared in bed at the palazzo, kissing Elio always made the rest of the world, and the rest of his life before they met, feel far away. While they kissed he could remember nothing else.   
“Elio,” Oliver said, saying Elio’s name into his neck, into his ear, “Elio, Elio, Elio….”  
Their bodies joined, and Oliver reveled in the intimate embrace of Elio’s body accepting him. His pleasure was tempered by tenderness, the need to be gentle with Elio. The water around them was gentle, too, soft but strong. for a few seconds Oliver felt the water hold and support both of them.  
The noises from outside began. He heard footsteps, and muffled conversation. For the first time, he felt panicked, that something would not only intrude but take Elio away from him. He held Elio tighter. Or, at least, he meant to, but Elio was gone. So was the water. Oliver still felt something holding and supporting him, but it was blank space, the substance of silence, the material of dreamless sleep, coma time.   
He woke, feeling small, vulnerable, and afraid of things he hadn’t even seen yet, though every cell in his body rang with the surety that he was in danger.  
“Easy, buddy, easy,” said Kenji Masanori.  
“This was a bad idea,” Daphne said.  
“Well, yeah, I remember mentioning that,” Kenji said.  
“Then why did you go along?!” Daphne said. Then, “Ollie, babe, it’s me. Daph. Calm down.”  
Oliver looked around. Kenji and Daphne stood by his bed, and the bed had a space age look-the television space age, of Saturday afternoon science fiction shows. Taped to his arms were tubes that connected to what looked like a tower shaped sound system, as for listening to music, and that was connected to a screen like a smart tv that showed different waves, presumably his vital signs. For all these gadgets, the room itself looked as if it had been carved from stone..  
There was one window, and it showed a view of a snow covered mountain range that looked like a postcard of Switzerland.  
“Where’s Elio?” he asked. “What did you do with him?”  
“Ollie, you were dreaming. Elio’s not here, he’s in Italy. Well, so are we, technically, but we’re on the border,” Daphne said.  
“What border?” Oliver asked.  
“Don’t worry about that,” Kenji said swiftly. “You seem distressed.”  
Oliver looked around at this incongruous room, of machines he had never seen before and stone walls.  
“I don’t know where I am, that could be why,” Oliver said.  
“Fair enough,” Kenji said placidly. “You’re in Castel Wulfstan.”  
“The fortress Elio told me about, where Dan and Jen were being taken,” Oliver remembered. He remembered Elio teasing him about being a werewolf, the coincidence that his name was Wolffstan, like the Hunters’ fortress.  
“Right. We had to bring you in, too. Do you remember leaving the Visconti palazzo?” Kenji said.  
Oliver wanted to answer, but his mind was truly blank. When he thought back to the last thing he truly remembered, he was assailed by the sensual, vivid memory of Elio topping him, thrusting hard and deep within him with not only the zeal of the hyperarousal of their bonding period, but a new joy for life he knew that they both shared. Oliver had come on his own chest, and Elio had licked it off. He looked like an innocent angel, but in bed Oliver trusted to Elio as the one with more experience and instinct. Although he had professed that Oliver was his first male lover, Elio had a sensuality and confidence in lovemaking that Oliver knew he lacked. They finished, and Elio said he was hungry and headed to the kitchen. That was his last memory, before dreaming of Elio and waking.  
He looked at Daphne. She looked concerned, but saddened, too. She knew what had happened, he could tell. Daphne was honest and believed in doing the right thing.   
“Daph…” he said plaintively, knowing she would tell him.  
“Ollie, after I found out what happened to Dan and Jen, I begged Fernando to take me to the hostel. We went, and I met Kenji. We had to find you, and Fernando said he had to report the fact that humans had been attacked and that a human was missing and possibly in danger to his Donna- that’s like a Benandanti leader, and for the Viscontis that’s Elio’s aunt, Zelenia. Anyway, we went to the Palazzo and this girl overheard us talking, and she’d seen us check into the room at Fernando’s so she knew I was your girlfriend, and said you were with Elio, at the palazzo,” Daphne said.  
“Daph, I remember seeing you there. That part’s clear as day. I know I should have left the palazzo with you, but I couldn’t leave Elio,” he said.  
“I understand now. Anyway, you disappeared. You slipped out of the palazzo, and headed for Fernando’s café. You were being psychically influenced by a Maladanti. Willem. He was at the hostel with us, remember? He chose you,” Daphne said, shuddering at the thought of it.  
Those words rang a bell. Willem had said, “I chose you. This is a gift.” Oliver relived it, and felt once more Willem’s teeth sinking into the flesh of his neck, the horrible pain of his skin being torn, and then the bite was so deep there was no pain at all. Growing up on the upper East Coast, Oliver recalled how flippantly he and his friends had responded to the periodic shark advisories in the summer, orders that no one should enter the water after a sighting of migrating sharks. Sometimes they snuck into the water anyway, making “Jaws” jokes. But, a bite like that was no joke. Being bitten by a shark must feel the way being bitten by Willem had ,so deep that there was no pain and the blood was so plentiful you wonder how your body ever could have held it all in.  
He felt at his neck and felt the bandage there.  
“He bit me,” Oliver said.  
“Yes,” Kenji said.  
“What am I now?” Oliver asked, remembering being trapped in Willem’s embrace, as he had been in Elio’s when he transformed in his room at the palazzo. His cock had been so thick and long, the creature Elio had become, Oliver felt like a tribute sacrificed to a primordial forest god from an old legend. Elio hadn’t been in his right mind, of course, he knew only his senses, and his thrusts made Oliver’s body tremble and break out in a cold sweat, he could feel the beast’s cock in his stomach, or at least if felt that way, and the beast’s mouth was open, his hot breath on Oliver’s neck. Would he become a creature like that? Would he and Elio run together in the deep, dark, sweet smelling evergreen forests in the mountains?  
“We’re monitoring you to find out just that,” Kenji said. “Lycanthropy progresses differently for everyone.”   
“Lycanthropy. You know, that’s a mental condition where people think they’ve transformed into a werewolf,” Oliver said.  
“In some people, it might be a delusion. In some cases, they may be transforming every month and the memory is confused and dreamlike. Or, they’re astral projecting in lieu of transformation. Or, maybe they watch too many movies. In Japan, there’s a condition called kitsunetsuki, that’s similar,” Kenji said.  
“Wherein the sufferer believes he’s a fox demon. And will only eat mochi,” Oliver said.  
Kenji said, “Kitsune have a mad sweet tooth. Well, you seem to be responding well. Of course, dementia wouldn’t have set in this early, anyway. It’s still touch and go at this point.”  
“Dementia?” Oliver said, horrified. He’d heard a lot about the eternal soul when his grandmother died. They prayed for her soul, her soul had begun its journey to God, and this seemed to comfort his aunt, more so than his father. As for Oliver, he just couldn’t imagine not Being, exactly as he was. To never enjoy a sunset, a thunderstorm, a book or a movie, with his mind, that seemed like something more than death, the oblivion he had felt all around him as his dream of Elio and the waterfall began to slip away. The possibility of dementia horrified him. “That’s what could happen to me?”  
“Yes, but it’s not a certainty. With the help of medication, we can stabilize this. If they’re effective, you may even be able to suppress the need to transform into a wolf every month,” Kenji said.  
“What if I want to be a werewolf?” Oliver said.  
“Why would you want that?” Daphne asked.  
“Then you’d have to kill. Every full moon, you’d be overcome with the urge to kill,” Kenji said. “I hate to assume, but I didn’t think that’d appeal to you.”  
“No! Of course not! I could never take a human life,” Oliver said vehemently. “I can’t live like that. I couldn’t….”  
“I know. I believe you. Look, you need to rest to give yourself the best chance with this,” Kenji said. “Just know, your friends are going through the same process.”  
“My friends? Oh, Dan and Jen. Well, friends is probably a bridge too far…but I’m glad they’re okay,” Oliver said. “What happens next, once we’re stable?”  
“One step at a time,” Kenji said. “Okay, I’ll be around later. Daphne, five more minutes, then back to your room.”  
“Sir, yes, sir,” she said, in a parodical military voice, and gave him a sarcastic salute. Kenji acknowledged it with a bemused glimmer in his eye, and left.  
“Daphne, I’m so sorry,” he said.  
“You? This was my idea. The village, the carnival, all of it, everything that’s happened to you, Dan, and Jen,” Daphne said.  
Oliver put his hand over her’s, and stroked her hand and her wrist. “No, no, Daph, its just…chance. Sometimes, random things happen. Maybe a million blunders on our part lead us where we end up, or maybe we make all the best decisions we can on our end ,but our life crashed into someone else’s, into their decisions and their designs. Or, everything happens for a good reason, down the line. But I know that all you wanted was to make some cool memories to show our kids one day.”  
“Our kids…..” Daphne said, smiling sadly. “I guess that’s not going to happen, is it?”  
“Why not? Unless you don’t want a werewolf for a sperm donor, and co-parent,” Oliver said.  
“If that werewolf is you, I can deal,” Daphne said. “But, you seem to be responding so well. It’s that Cossack constitution, from your mom’s side, definitely.”  
“I’m not sure if Russian Jews were allowed to be Cossacks, Daph, but thanks,” Oliver said. “anyway, my Dad would say that its Germans who never get sick.”  
“Well, that’s your Dad-he takes credit for everything,” Daphne said.  
“Whoa! I thought you two got along famously,” Oliver said.  
“Um, he flirts shamelessly with me, anyway. It always pissed me off. Its like he was trying to put you down, using me. Now that we’re broken up, I can say it!” Daphne said.  
“Broken up? Are we? Is that what we are?” Oliver said.  
“We have to be, Ollie. I had no idea you were going through doubts about your sexuality. I wish you could have told me, but I guess I was the last person you could tell,” Daphne said.  
“I started to feel attracted to guys when I was in junior high. I knew I couldn’t say anything. My mom, bless her…she doesn’t get that being gay isn’t a choice. I’ve heard her say that ‘those people’ could change if they tried. And my dad-forget it. He thinks gays are weak, deceitful, hypersexual, all the worst things you could think,” Oliver said. “I just decided I could deal with it on my own.”  
“You deal with everything on your own,” Daphne said. “It frustrates the people who love you-if I do say so, myself. Just make sure things are different with Elio. Open up to him. Share your pain and your real self with him.”  
“Elio….have you seen him? How is he?” Oliver said.  
“Hurting, babe. He won’t take your sweatshirt off. He looks so….sad, and weakened by all this. But, there’s this strength that he has beneath all that softness. I think he’ll be okay,” Daphne said.  
“Without me? Is that what you mean? That he’ll be okay without me?” Oliver said.  
“Calm down. Obviously, you can’t see him now. We’re miles from the Villa. You just don’t remember being brought here. But, you two will see each other again. He wanted to come here, but the moon is full this Friday, his coven needs him,” Daphne said.  
“I should be with him,” Oliver said simply. He didn’t tell her everything that Elio had told him about soulmates, and bonding. He didn’t feel he could render those words with all the soul that Elio had, and make her understand the way he had instantly understood. Maybe finding your soulmate couldn’t be understood from the outside. Oliver knew he needed Elio, to see him and be close to him, and talk to him, and he felt a great yearning and sadness. He needed him.   
“He wants to be with you too, which means you have to hold on to you. You have to get well, or this thing will get you. Ollie, you could lose your mind, or end up some kind of beast that kills people. You could become Willem,” Daphne said.   
“No!” he said. He refused to become like the mad animal that had lured him away from Elio and bitten him.   
“Okay, good. If you don’t want it to happen, make sure it doesn’t. Stay calm, and get well, because Elio needs you,” Daphne said. “Now, I should get back to my room. I don’t want to get Kenji in too much trouble.”  
“Yeah you do. Can you imagine that guy getting laid off and having to start his life over working at an electronics store?” Oliver said.  
Daphne laughed, but said, “Get some sleep, Cowboy. See you in the morning.”  
Daphne left. Oliver lay in bed, listening to the machines make their noises. Their blips and tones became sort of soothing, but he was restless for Elio. Across mountains, across lakes, across all the miles between them, he could feel his spirit seeking Elio, and waited to feel an answer.


	13. Chapter 13

Marzia convinced Elio to come to the village with her, on Thursday. No traces of the Carnival were left. The masks were gone from the display in shop windows and the balconies of houses, as was papier mache or mannequin representations of The Beast. He was a neutered mascot, and represented only what people feared or clandestinely indulged in themselves: the desire to eat too many desserts, drink too much wine, cheat on their spouse with the neighbour or their grade school sweetheart. What was called monstrous was only what was disruptive, and they couldn't conceive such a thing appearing from outside themselves.  
It was an overcast, chilly day. Marzia wore Elio's denim jacket she had once borrowed and never returned, Elio wore Oliver Wolffstan's UCV sweatshirt. Marzia didn't comment on this. They avoided Fernando's bookstore. No one in the village could have known what had occurred in the cafe, but Marzia and Elio did and steered clear of it, going to another cafe and walking a way they knew wouldn't bring them in view of Fernando's. It was, however, the mouth of the street where Marzia once lived, before she was taken in by the Viscontis.  
"Do you ever visit your family?" Elio asked.  
Marzia shrugged. "It's been a while. I would just see my stepfather, and I don't want to. My mother made her choice. "  
"I'm sorry," Elio said.  
"I hate lovers. They are selfish. They can only love their beloved, and everyone else, they forget. You can't be a newlywed wife and a mother, especially not to a daughter. If I were a boy, maybe I'd be glad to have a new father, or just run along and do what I liked, but I needed my mother and she didn't have the time to be needed by anyone but him," Marzia said, glancing in the direction of where she used to live.  
Elio put his arm around her.  
"My grandmother told me that as long as I trusted the moon, the goddess of the moon would make my dreams come true," Marzia said.  
"What do you dream of, Marzia?" Elio asked.  
"I don't know. It seems I only want to go back, really. To being a little girl, when I had both my parents with me, and they were my best friends! The future.….I am fine if every day is like today," Marzia said.  
Elio lovingly hugged her waist, and leaned into the curve of her neck and her shoulder.  
"What do you dream about, Elio? About Oliver?" She asked.  
"If I did, would you hate me?" He asked.  
Marzia laughed.  
"You can do what you want," she said, with acquiescing dismissiveness. So sweet, so hard, so easy to be around, so wounded, but she trusted him. Elio would always love Marzia. The pull he felt to Oliver was a knowing in his bones, like the premonition of rain or a deja Vu. It wasn't preference, or fondness. Those things were their own phenomenon. This was love, and it wasn't based on having been charmed by the other's ability to amuse or will to please, or even sexual attraction. It was a singular and mighty feeling. Elio could tell Marzia wanted none of it. He wondered, now, if anyone had a choice. The Sir Hassirm said that love was as strong as death.  
He had dreamed of Oliver. It felt like more than a dream. Even when Elio awoke, urgently, feverishly aroused, tossing in his covers, both goaded and tormented by the friction, he felt so close but so far away from Oliver all at the same time. He was on the other side of the dream awareness, the thin veil between minds, that he had felt when he was asleep.  
He had no idea how to get to Castel Wulfstan. But it felt like Injustice that he wasn't there. It hurt that he wasn't there.  
"Things are different now than when you met, Elio. He is one of them, now. His true self will soon be gone. He's just a beast, now," Marzia said.  
"You don't know that. He could be cured," Elio said.  
"Humans don't take to these cures well. They transform or they die," Marzia said. "How can this work?"  
"I don't know….but why would it be if it wasn't going to work, somehow?" Elio said.  
"Maybe you are being used by them. You feel this connection to Oliver, yes? And not a day after you meet, he is turned. This is all to open your mind to them," Marzia said.  
Elio didn't know what to say. When he was young and vulnerable, he was psychically attacked. While his body raged with fever, in his mind he saw horrible threats to his family, and was locked between his suffering body and fear plagued mind.  
He recovered. But a kernel of the fear always remained. When he breathed, when he blinked, every alternating second he felt the memories rise and then stilled his fear. It was a private thing, that needed space. That's why it was easier to be lost in books. He read for hours, at the berm by the river when it was warm, in any room he happened to find himself in, or played music, delighting in feeling the music bloom within, through, and outside himself.  
He had to admit, having sex with Marzia had the same effect on him. His thoughts became waves rather than jagged static.  
"Love doesn't have to be ugly, Marzia," he said.  
"Perhaps not, but it is. It just is. Only now, that I live with your aunt, can I live in peace. What's a child to a mother who's in love with a new man? I always thought, if a man hit me my mother would lose her mind with anger, and kick him out, and of course divorce him. But she didn't! She chose him. Maybe one day, when her love has cooled down, she'll miss me. But things are new and hot with her and her husband now. I hope you don't become like this with your love for Oliver, that you will still have room to care for your family, your friends, and yourself. And don't let the Maladanti into your mind," Marzia said.  
"I won't," Elio promised.  
He felt lonely in his love. He had no one to share his feelings with. Oliver would be the one to share it all with, and he was gone. Not through his own fault, or even his desire, but still gone. He wished he could just see how he was doing.  
"Marzia, I'm not choosing Oliver over anyone else. We were chosen and brought together, and though it is a mystery not the sort that needs to be solved. The mystery is the answer. I barely know him. I must sound mad," Elio said.  
"No. The moon herself fell in love with a human. Endymion," Marzia reminded him.  
Of course, they both knew the story, of the moon goddess-Selene, Diana, Luna, Tana, she had many names-fell in love with a beautiful shepherd sleeping in a meadow. Since she could not spend his days with him, at night she came to him in dreams. A witch, a dark goddess, tried to enthrall him with falsely conjured affection, but Diana's love was stronger. Her lover came to his senses, and she made him immortal once they were reunited and the spell was broken.  
She was compassionate to lovers, and granted whatever they asked.  
Like the goddess, Elio had fallen for someone who was not like him. They were separated by those differences. A moor between them, like Cathy and Heathcliff, and Elio could feel his soul crying, 'Let me in!' the way Cathy's restless spirit had. Oliver's sweatshirt still smelled like him. It intensified his longing for all of him, not just his smell.  
Would the goddess help him?  
Elio had an idea. Maybe it was divine intervention.  
"Marzia, I need your help!" Elio said.  
"No," she said, "if it involves going to that fortress of hunters. "  
"It does, but not the way you think," Elio said.

Oliver felt tired, but hopeful. He woke up feeling physically stronger. Doctors came in to look him over. They had a sterile politeness, but felt benevolent. When one of them removed the bandage on his neck, Oliver was shocked to see the wound scabbed over as if much older.  
"Is that normal?" Oliver asked.  
"Accelerated healing? " She, the doctor, said, in a crisp English accent. "Yes. Lycanthropes heal remarkably fast."  
"But…the medicine. I thought I had a chance…that I wouldn't turn into a werewolf," he said.  
"Quite right. But you are still infected with lycanthropy and always will be. Perhaps you will respond to the suppressant mechanism of the drug, perhaps not. I'm sure you're aware that organ donation recipients' bodies sometimes reject the new organ. Some viruses resist antibiotics. Everyone's body chemistry is unique. You may never transform, or you may have to make arrangements every month," she said.  
She was maybe in her mid thirties, blonde, and looked like a duplicitous love interest in a James Bond film. She didn't where a name tag, so he could only think of her as Doctor, and was too intimidated by her cold frankness to ask her name.  
"What kind of arrangements?" Oliver asked.  
"Whatever is convenient for you. Perhaps someone you trust can help you with the particulars," she said.  
"You mean, if I change?" He said.  
"Yes. But, rest assured that the protocol has an 80 percent success rate," she said.  
"Right. But that twnety percent, they don't show those guys in the commercial," Oliver said.  
Doctor gave him a withering smile that was mostly in the eyebrows.  
"Dr. Gristwood!" Kenji greeted her.  
"Hunter Masanori," she said. "I believe Mr. Wolfstan is ready to be moved."  
"Moved?" Oliver asked.  
"To a more comfortable room," Kenji explained.  
"Oh! Great. How are Dan and Jen?" He asked.  
"Are they relatives?" Doctor Gristwood asked.  
"No. We were just on spring break together," Oliver said.  
"Then we really can't discuss that," Kenji said, but Oliver sensed he was painting it a bit broad for the doctor's sake. Daphne would fill him in, later.  
"I'm glad you're doing well, Oliver," Kenji said.  
"Thanks for checking on me," Oliver said, and recalled what Elio had said-hunters seemed like douche bags, but meant well. Elio…..he felt just out of sight, offstage and soon to reappear. He felt that way even in his dreams, the last two days, and strange dreams they were. He couldn't remember their scenes, but he awoke feeling something important was half finished. Nevermind that he hadn't felt such urgent lust since he was a teenager, and had first discovered gay porn. Elio surpassed the dreams of pornography, and Oliver thought about their lovemaking as he lay in his Star Trek-esque hospital bed in a room that looked like a small cave. How could he have left him?  
He didn't care about what he had been told about the psychic abilities of the Maladanti. He should have been stronger. He should have showed more care to Elio. He longed to make it up to him. He rehearsed and shredded what he was going to say, and their next meeting felt right around the corner.  
"Well, of course I want to see how you're healing, but I also thought it was my duty to let you know that Willem escaped," Kenji said.  
"What the fuck?" Oliver said. "How did you let that happen?"  
"Why the devil did you think this was the proper time and place to disclose this to a sick man? Honestly!" Doctor Gristwood said, with more color than Oliver suspected her of.  
"We didn't let him," Kenji said. "He must know the caves."  
"The Maladanti live like Sawney Bean and his clan in the caves around here," Gristwood said.  
"Sawney Bean?" Oliver said.  
"An old English folktale. Sawney was a cannibal, as were his wife and children, and they lived underground, or in caves, waylayed travelers and….." Gristwood said.  
"I can imagine. So, he found a way into the cave system, and that's it? He's free to ruin someone else's life?" Oliver said.  
Until then, he hadn't realized that he felt this way, that his life was ruined. He was alive, which he so enjoyed being. He loved life, really. The seasons, with their heat and cold and colors, he loved tastes, and music, although he hated dancing (when sober), and loved the awareness of beauty, especially. To just be alive and enjoy the beauty of everything was miraculous. His only real pain had come from knowing how badly he wanted a man. He saw it now, not only the intense physical yearning, but the need to share his life with the person he truly desired. Of course he had been miserable, thinking it could never be. Then came Elio.  
Guys his own age were mostly out and proud, and Oliver didn't feel like he could ever be, with the things his parents had said about gays. Their culture-Wednesdays at Godfrey's, finding hook ups on apps-could never be his world no matter how he wanted it.  
He hadn't expected to become enamored, utterly enslaved to a boy six years younger, who looked like art. When he blinked, he thought of Elio, he felt him around as if his smoldering emerald eyes were trained on his neck, and his memory rang with his name. Perhaps he would forget his own, and the only name he knew would be Elio. A preferable alternative to the dementia that threatened to erupt from his tainted blood and devour his mind. He'd rather surrender it to love than disease.  
"He's being pursued. We're addressing the threat. But, as for you, you must understand that he will try to compel you to come to him again. You have a bond, because he bit you and turned you," Kenji said.  
"I'm not bonded to him," Oliver protested vehemently.  
"In a way, you are. In a different way than to Elio," Kenji said. "The moon will be full on Friday. You'll feel drawn to him."  
"I'm not going to him. I don't care if he wants me. How do I fight this?" Oliver said.  
"By not fighting. Struggle exhausts and confuses you," Kenji said.  
Oliver saw the sense in that. He'd never liked big emotional displays, all the time and energy they took to come down from.  
He took deep breaths. Every breath carried a thought of Elio. He had to see him again. He wanted to talk to him and really get to know him, as they had been before Willem's spell. Their conversation was gaping open, waiting to be continued.  
“Don’t worry-we got you covered,” Kenji said.  
Who hadn’t seen superhero movies? They flooded the theater every summer, the latest installments of splashy ongoing sagas about people with extraordinary powers who always saved the day and beat the odds no matter how dire the threat. They were inspiring. Oliver was no superhero. In fact, he felt like a coward. He knew he had let his parents wishes dictate his life. Daphne had pointed out that he never stood up to her friends when they subtly insulted or pushed him around. He just didn’t want to be a bully to others, but maybe he had never defended himself. He wanted to tell Kenji, ‘You’ve got the wrong guy, I can’t do this.’ The only brave thing he had ever done was go home with Elio. Whatever he had to do to get back to him, he’d do, but he wasn’t sure that could be called courage.  
The exam ended, and Oliver was moved to a room that looked homier. The bed was normal, there was a desk, and a bookshelf that housed familiar classics. Not that he had read all of them, but who knew, maybe it was just the right time in his life to tackle Melville’s ‘Moby Dick’. The window showed the snowy mountain he had seen before, in the hospital-like room, and a contrastingly verdant meadow that sloped down to a glacial lake. On its smooth surface, the mountain was reflected. He was in Romantic country-not romance as in love but as in the free-thinking radical poets of the early nineteenth century, who’d decamped to the Alps, to Italy amd Switzerland particularly, to live in peace the ideals which had shocked those in their native land, to be inspired, to be intellectually stimulated by likeminded souls, to bask in the majestic scenery that the literature and poetry of the day had described in such sublime terms, as the scene of intrigue and even magic. He and Willem had talked about those things. No wonder Willem was drawn to such literature, if he knew these mountains well enough to escape into their embrace as if the mountain was his own mother. What was it like to live underground? Oliver imagined worlds of rough crystal and ice, underground rivers, waterfalls, and lakes whose water was so fresh its taste was sharp.  
But, why was he imagining it? Was Kenji right, did he want to follow Willem? He went to the bookshelf. Books had never failed to distract him from real life and its forbidding complexity. Stories had convenient beginnings, middles, and ends, all plotted out beforehand, and if you didn’t like the story you could find another book. Life was a Hell of a lot messier, although in that unpredictability was its own heady charm. His eyes flew to Shelley’s Frankenstein, the book he had been idling his time with in the hostel when he first spoke to Willem. He hesitated, then he picked it up. Why not? He wouldn’t let that bastard steal the enjoyment of his favorite book. Maybe we become our favorite books, after a while. His life had certainly taken on interesting parallels to Shelley’s novel-the monster and its creator, bound together whether they would be or not.  
He was served breakfast, and then lunch, in his room, and given medicine. The people who delivered these things did so with the same silent benevolence that all the doctors but Gristwood had treated him with. They weren’t unkind, but they didn’t talk to him, either. Funny, he had always considered himself an introvert, only able to feel open and loose, to a certain degree, with a scattered handful of close friends, and yet he wished one of them would talk to him with the same regard as Gristwood or Kenji Masanori. Oliver realized this could be become loneliness, if he stayed at this place, any longer.  
“Knock, knock!” said a cheerful voice. Oliver opened the door. This, he knew, would be different. The attendants merely administering food and medicine had opened the door for themselves.  
“Hi,” he said, and felt stupid.  
“Hello, Oliver,” said the woman at the threshold. She was smiling warmly, which was encouraging, a black woman who looked about the same age as Dr. Gristwood, with appealingly wild curly hair. He felt somewhat at ease that she had called him by his name, that she was smiling, was he so on edge that it took so little?  
Her name was Nzinga, and she said she was here to teach him some techniques to remain calm. This made him nervous.  
“Is this about Willem? I mean, the Maladanti that bit me. Kenji said I had to make sure I didn’t respond when he called to me,” Oliver said.  
“That is a possibility,” Nzinga said. “Which is why we need to help you clear your mind, and choose your point of focus.”  
“Oh, God-do you mean meditation? ‘Cause I’m not very good at that. My girlfriend dragged-I mean invited- me to this Valentine’s day couples thing at her Yoga studio, and I couldn’t keep my eyes closed during the meditation part. I kept staring at the air conditioning unit on the ceiling, and I felt nervous, and itchy, and-  
“That’s perfectly normal,” Nzinga softly interrupted. “practices like Yoga-the physical form that you and your girlfriend probably did at her studio-exist because the body needs to be cleared of tension before you can practice the royal yoga.”  
“Royal yoga? Like the king of all Yoga? You stand on your head or something?” Oliver said. Oy, vey. He wasn’t cut out for this!  
“Meditation. It’s the king of all Yogas,” Nzinga smiled, as if reading his thoughts.  
“Yeah, but what’s the petty baron of Yogas? Can we start there?” Oliver said.  
She actually laughed.  
Oliver sat on the edge of his bed, and Nzinga at the chair at his desk while she explained that while it was hard to control the mind, it was possible, and the rewards of controlling the mind were being in control of one’s life. If you feel well, and think clearly, you will be able to make good decisions and carry them out.  
“And that will keep Willem out of my head? Because, I mean, being a werewolf and a zombie is kind of a lot for one guy, you have to admit,” Oliver said.  
“You know, having a sense of humor is an indication that you’re an agile, creative thinker. That’s a very good thing. It means you are synthesizing the information at your disposal into original content. You understand your situation, Oliver, and I don’t think you grasp how remarkable that is,” Nzinga said.  
“I don’t think so, really. What’s the alternative?” he said.  
“Denial. Horror. Self loathing. Madness,” Nzinga said.  
“Yeah, I’ll stick with humor,” Oliver said.  
“Good to hear. Why do you think that is, that you can accept the things you’ve been told about your condition?” Nzinga asked.  
“I think because I’d already met Elio. He’s a Benandanti, and I’d seen him transform. He was still himself, just in a different form, and I was patient with him, so he came around. It was just another way to be himself. He was still him, we were still together. Maybe things never really change, they just appear differently. I don’t know. Does this make any sense?” Oliver said.  
Nzinga merely smiled, and said, “Let’s begin.” She guided him into taking deep, abdominal breaths. He hadn’t realized that he breathed shallowly into his chest, but Nzinga said most people didn’t realize that. Adults breathe that way because of emotional tension and physical discomfort. Children, who were generally more content, were the perfect breathers, and naturally took deep breaths. He counted to ten while breathing, and then it was like he had dove from a diving board into a pool. He felt himself leaving off the counting,and plunging into simply breathing. It was calming and transportive, and when Nzinga rang a small bell to bring him back, he felt as if no time and hours had passed all at the same time.  
“This is it?” he asked.  
“Essentially. But there’s more to learn. I’ll see you tomorrow, Oliver,” she said. Their visit was certainly the highlight of his day. He ate, read, slept, remembered making love to Elio or even just contemplated his face and was soon overcome, pinching his nipples, stroking his cock, fingering himself as a poor substitute for Elio’s cock. When he was done he was exhausted, missed Elio even more, and missed so many other people, too. He hadn’t talked to Abby or Jacob in, he realized, about a week, and didn’t know where his phone was. They were happy high school kids, and he was almost relieved that there was this silence between them, so his condition couldn’t disturb them. It was the same reason he hadn’t pursued his attraction to men. The potential strife with his parents would be a dark cloud over Abby and Jake’s lives, and he refused to make them suffer the way he had always suffered, feeling like an awkward, bad fit in his own life. They had an ease, confidence, and joy he knew he didn’t and rather than envy it he treasured their happiness, and vowed not to detract from it.  
He breathed and counted until he fell asleep.

“Elio….” Marzia began, with doubts.  
“Perfect trust,” he reminded her. The spells took focus, and focus takes trust, in what is within you and what is outside of you. Imperfect trust meant imperfect focus, and would only yield dangerously flawed results. On the outside, they were ready. From the wine cellar at the villa, and from Mafalda’s kitchen, they had purloined the wine, bread, and salt, and these things were lain around them on a blanket over the grass of the berm. Through the trees was the cold stream, and they could hear the water. It could be the place where Narcissus wasted away looking into the river to woo his own reflection, where Syrinx turned to reeds, and Echo disappeared into a voice ringing over lonely places. The magic haunted this place, the harmony of peace and possibility. Now, they just needed to trust, and begin.  
“Perfect trust,” Marzia said. She was a determined young woman. This for her, was a test of her abilities, to gauge how far she had come in service to the moon. But asking the goddess a favor, even for love, could be dangerous. Everything, in one way or another, could be dangerous.  
Marzia repeated the litany in a language older than the standardized Italian that was based on the Florentine dialect of Renaissance poetry. Elio focused on her words and fell into the space between them, drifted on the crest of her words and travelled on her words. He was sailing, he was floating, he was falling.  
When he came to his senses again, he was looking out a window at a snowy mountain towering over a lake. He took in the rest of the room, and his gaze fell on the bed where Oliver slept, one hand behind his head and the other resting on a copy of Frankenstein open on his stomach.  
It worked! He was out of his body, and his body was safe with Marzia. He felt substantial, he could even feel his feet touch the floor. It was eerie. Was the soul another body? Was the physical body a doppelganger the way a mask is a false face? Was wearing the body a necessity of the occasion-life-the way the carnival necessitated the mask?  
All that could be worked out later. Elio touched Oliver’s face. He reveled in the feeling of his skin, but he was also happy to find out that he could feel it at all, in this form. And could Oliver feel him too?  
He stirred, his eyelashes fluttering, opening.  
“Elio!” He quickly sat up, the book falling off his stomach, and on the floor.  
“Oliver,” he said, and they delighted in each other’s names, in the sight of each other.  
“What are you doing here?” Oliver asked. “It’s not safe for you, here. Willem escaped.”  
“He can’t find us. He can’t hurt us. You’re safe here,” Elio said.  
“And you?” Oliver said.  
“I’m safe somewhere else,” Elio said.  
“I’m not sure I understand…” Oliver said.  
“Ah, but do you care?” Elio said.  
“How you’re here? No. You’re here. That’s all that matters,” Oliver said.  
Oliver…Maybe Elio had thought, in a corner of his heart, that he had exaggerated, idealized, was desperate to continue this thing between them just because it had been thwarted. He had admonished Marzia for having doubts, but he had, too  
. They were swept away, now. Oliver’s innocent assuredness convinced him. Being close to him convinced him. This was real, it was right, this was them.  
They kissed. Oliver pulled away, and said, “You’re cold!”  
“Am I?” Elio asked.  
“Yeah, your lips are so cold,” Oliver said, but he kissed him again. Oliver’s warmth became Elio’s, as they kissed and touched. Oliver’s breath was his, the warmth of his body made Elio feel more real and solid.  
“I’m so sorry,” Oliver said.  
Elio heard him from far away. He was abuzz with the borrowed warmth of Oliver’s body, with the borrowed breath Elio stole from his mouth as they kissed. Finally he responded, and said, “What? Why are you sorry? You did nothing wrong.”  
“I left you,” he said.  
“No. You were compelled. I know what that’s like. When I was thirteen, it happened to me too. I almost did something really horrible. And I felt guilty for a long time,” Elio said. “But what other people do isn’t our fault.”  
“Never?” Oliver said.  
“Seldom,” Elio said.  
“I don’t know. I think I’ve mostly got by trying to play along, be the most inoffensive person ever…but also try to figure people out, a little bit. What they want. What they really seem to want from others. And if you can give them that, don’t they leave you alone? And you have something like freedom. Maybe sometimes, if you fail on your end, they feel cheated, and whatever happens from there….” Oliver said.  
Elio wanted to go back to kissing. He had felt complete in Oliver’s arms, Oliver’s tongue in his mouth and lips against his, Oliver giving him life, as if his body was enough for both their souls, Elio could not just have his warmth but melt into him.  
“I’m not sure I understand. You think that if you don’t fulfill your duty to make others happy somehow, their cruelty is fair retaliation?” Elio said.  
“Dismal philosophy, isn’t it?” Oliver said.  
“I don’t think you owe anyone else your soul,” Elio said.  
“I don’t mean that what happened to you was your fault. If I’ve ever known anyone truly innocent, it’s you, Elio,” Oliver said.  
“I’m not, really,” Elio said. “Don’t blame yourself. This wheel of appeasement and small mercies you are talking about has nothing to do with good and evil. Think bigger.”  
“I still left you,” Oliver said.  
“You didn’t want to,” Elio said. “I was so sure, at the palazzo, that we were bonding. When you were gone, I couldn’t believe it was all real. But now, I know that it is. I just know.”  
Oliver whispered into his ear, and along his neck, “ ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt the earth doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love’.”  
His voice echoed through Elio. He kissed Oliver deeply.  
Then, he started to feel distracted and scattered.  
He woke up in Marzia’s arms.  
“What did you do? Why did you bring me back?” he asked her.  
“Elio, you didn’t see yourself. I had to,” she said.  
Elio wiped at his nose and saw the red smear on his hand.  
“I get nosebleeds all the time it doesn’t matter,” he said, but he knew this was different. He had been so happy. He hadn’t felt any pain. But, Marzia looked frightened.  
“I’ll never understand love. I’d rather have friendship,” she said. “Do you still think Oliver is your soulmate?”  
“I think so. He could see me! As if I was physically there. And when we kiss, I feel whole. He’s so different from anyone I have ever known. Protective, a little self-loathing, but not unkind. He is so very kind. He is gentle,” Elio said.  
“A Maladanti, gentle?” Marzia said.  
“He’s not a Maladanti,” Elio said. “He was attacked by them, just like I was.”  
“Its different, Elio. They didn’t make you like them. He’s one of them. What if he becomes truly like them, and changes? Can you love him if he is mindlessly vicious, if he is a beast?” Marzia said. “You are who you are. You are Benandanti. We protect people from those creatures.”  
Elio felt cold and shaky. He wanted to give Marzia a good answer, but he didn’t know what to say. Only that he had been granted this, but it would not work again. The goddess gave, but not everything at once. How would he see Oliver again, and when? He missed his warmth. He was back in his own body, but it was Oliver’s skin he missed.


	14. Chapter 14

What had just happened? Only moments before, Oliver had embraced Elio, and now he was gone. He expected any moment to awake abruptly from a dream where time had stretched languidly until that final jolt designed by his mind, afire with the sunbursts of sleeping activity, to jolt him awake. However, he was awake so this must have been real. More than real, the strange pace at which his life was now to be lived, it seemed. Elio’s skin had a luminosity that was like moonlight or untrammeled snow, and indeed he had been nearly as cold. But, he had been in Oliver’s arms, all the same, and kissing him felt as intoxicating as it had at the palazzo on the night of the carnival. The same, but with an added charm that felt fatal, Oliver’s warmth and Elio’s coldness came together as they embraced, and Oliver felt it as a feverish contrast. How had he just disappeared?  
“Elio,” he said, looking futilely around, knowing he was saying his name into emptiness.  
Oliver felt bereft for the first time since his ordeal began. He went to his window and opened the curtain.  
He was used to cities. New York City, then Richmond. The moon was visible in every corner of the wide sky, perhaps, but it was not always so with stars. He was used to skies with an orange haze of reflected artificial light. Here the sky was not, as one chose to portray it in childhood crayon drawings, black, but such a blue as Oliver didn’t know how to describe. It was every blue, not a single color. It was dark, a rich violet, and it was inkened twilight as well as the first dark hour of dawn. The stars strewn on this sky were bright but far away and winking. He could perceive constellations waiting to be puzzled out, but the only one he could connect was Orion the hunter, and the bright, throbbing Sirius at his heel. There was space between stars, but they were so plentiful they made his vision blur at even a shallow attempt at counting them. “Number the stars, if you are able to number them’, Abram was told, and no wonder he had come out of this encounter with a new name: the task would break any man, leaving him with no name, the need for a new name.  
The mountain’s bright and immortal snows were shone on its thunderous face, catching the moonlight the way Elio’s skin had. The moon and the mountain were reflected in the lake, and the stars danced over them.  
He wished Elio could be beside him once more, in his arms, that they could regard these things together. What was beauty, alone? It was an ache like affection or compassion, that swells the heart and softens the mind, in a better disposition to love. Nature was being so generous with him, it showed him how selfish and smallminded he had been. He would be better. Regrets batted at his mind, he did his best to drive them out as Nzinga had taught him, by breathing steadily, deeply, into his stomach, and rather than closing his eyes looked out at the lake, the mountain, and the almost full moon. He whispered Elio’s name, wishing it could travel on the air.

 

“Elio…”

Elio woke up. He hadn’t been sleeping very soundly, anyway. He’d tossed and turned, feeling anxious, thirsty, and like he had forgotten something, every feeling but tired enough to sleep. When he was thirteen, he had passed many a sleepless night, willing himself not to fall asleep, so that he wouldn’t have nightmares of his worst fears. The Maladante who psychically attacked him had plagued him with horrible visions. He went to school listless and irritable from insomnia and slept in the afternoon. He was wary of hearing his name in the dark again, but quickly perceived that this was different. He felt loved by this voice, seen and touched by it. He knew it was Oliver, and felt almost as if he was close to him. He felt his energy, a certain density and presence, and a sense of yearning as if Oliver’s voice longed to reach out and touch him. Elio shivered beneath his covers, and felt it all, felt his own yearning pulse along his spine, in his hands, in his chest. He listened into his lover’s feelings, and felt them echo through him.

 

He opened the window and went to his balcony. The cold air felt so good on his feverish skin. Leaving his body to steal a few minutes with Oliver had frightened Marzia terribly, and she seemed to be angry with him. For Elio’s part, he had been exhausted, and went to bed early with a headache. He realized the pain was gone now. He was only anxious to hear and feel Oliver again. He looked out at the trees brushed with moonlight, silver light falling on the orchard, the and the old stone statues of goddesses in the shade. The trees wuthered languidly in the soft breeze. Elio felt less alone, at peace, and as if Oliver was truly close to him. They were not only their bodies, but also their awareness, their love, and their lingering voices, and the night brought them together. He looked at the almost full moon, and felt its soft but deeply penetrating light work itself into its hair and skin. It all felt like love.

When Elio couldn’t sleep, he played the piano. He went to the sitting room downstairs, trying to be as quiet as possible in the dark. He knew Zelenia and Mafalda were concerned about him, and had gone to bed to avoid them. Maybe they would be angry or overbearing at him, but Marzia’s situation was more precarious. She had been taken in by his family, and she lived in fear that they would reject her if she wasn’t perfect. Elio felt bad that she felt compromised for helping him. But he just wanted to be with this loving presence that felt like Oliver. Oliver in the silence, the silence that knew him, Oliver in the hot-cold moonlight spilling through the window, and the music that he played was for his lover. He chose Claude De Bussy’s “Claire de Lune”, and he could feel his lover hearing the music and loving it. It was like there was a pandora’s box in Elio’s head, a secret chest ,and instead of ills there was only hope inside of it, only beauty, only love, only music. This secret place was where the music waited, and when he played the piano or the guitar the chest flung open and the music unspooled from him in a never ending thread. Oliver was on the other end of this thread, now.  
Words appeared in Elio’s head, not Oliver’s voice, but it felt more like his own sudden thoughts, abruptly manifested in his mind,  
“By this lone lake, in this far land,  
Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,  
Thy sweet voice to each tone of even  
United, and thine eyes replying  
To the hues of yon fair heaven.   
Come, gentle friend: wilt sit by me?  
And be as thou wert wont to be  
Ere we were disunited?  
None doth behold us now: the power  
That led us forth at this lone hour  
Will be but ill requited  
If thou depart in scorn: oh! Come..

"We will have rites our faith to bind,But our church shall be the starry night,Our altar the grassy earth outspread,And our priest the muttering wind." Elio knew this one, he was sure.

He left the piano, and raced to his room to pluck his cell phone from his charger. As the words still reverberated within him, he typed them into the search box of an app on his phone. The search returned results for “Rosalind and Helen” by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Elio smiled. Oliver was a romantic. How uncanny, his choice, given that Shelley had died in Italy. Elio felt cold. Was this ominous? Or only coincidence? 

‘Why Shelley?’ Elio asked.

He felt Oliver shrug. 

Elio laughed. 

He felt so happy. But still, Oliver was miles away. The last words of the extract of the poem circled his mind, ‘Oh, come…..’. But there was no way he could get to the fortress. That was out of the question, but he wished it were possible. Morning came, a soft blue, then gentle shades of gold. He went back to bed as the sunlight began to spill through the windows and form shadows on the floor, feeling like Oliver was beside him. He hugged Oliver’s sweatshirt. It smelled like a marriage of their mutual sweat. He sat up, and looked into a blue sky dominated by the hot, high orb of the sun. He felt warm grass beneath him, instead of his bed. Another dream, like the dream of the waterfall. Elio was more excited than afraid. The last person to penetrate his mind this strongly had been trying to frighten him to death, so this was a marked improvement, after all. He was dazzled by what he saw. He was in a sea of purple wildflowers, in a meadow cradled in the palm of the mountains. Oliver was beside him. His dear face! There is absolutely nothing like the face of the person you love. Elio felt like a mother adoring her child, so deep was his awe and pride and complete love for the smile on Oliver’s face and the spring sunshine on his eyebrows and eyelashes. 

“This isn’t safe, Oliver. They could be watching,” Elio said. “Our dreams aren’t safe?” Oliver asked.

“Not like this, no,” Elio said. “The last time….they used to show me things. I was vulnerable, because I was in between. Not human any longer, and just barely a Benandante. My mind was fragile.”

Oliver drew Elio into his arms. “It’s different. You’re not alone anymore.”

Elio felt his soul sigh. 

That was what he needed to hear. The trees, flowers, and the way the sunlight lay on his arms and his neck and face told him he was seen by the hands that had shaped the world, the life that was in all nature and living creatures. But to be loved by one person whom he adored, too, made him feel seen into and protected. He believed Oliver. 

“ What’s the Fortress like?” Elio asked. 

“Cold. Every corner of it is cold. I think it’s always winter here, like the North in “Game of Thrones,”” Oliver said.

“So, instead of ‘Winter is coming,’ Winter never leaves?” Elio said .

“Exactly!” Oliver laughed. “So, you’re a nerd, too?” 

“Ah, no, but for a time I was an agoraphobe,” Elio said. 

“Really?” Oliver said.“Really. I couldn’t trust what I saw, after the psychic attack. But, I got all caught up on ‘Game of Thrones’, anyway,” Elio said. “my friend, you met her, she coaxed me out of my shell, healed me with her love.” 

“Her love?” Oliver asked.

“Friends love each other,” Elio said. “it is very pure, to love a friend. ‘I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as a romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavor to regulate my mind’.” 

Oliver smiled broadly. “That’s from Frankenstein! That’s my favorite book!” 

Elio smiled. And he meant the words he had quoted. Robert Walton, the captain of the vessel that rescued Victor Frankenstein, had perhaps meant he needed a companion who shared his love of starlit sea voyages to uncharted lands, and would be able to comfort and soothe his wilder thoughts and emotions like no one else. Elio wanted someone to share the whispers of trees with, someone whose presence grounded him in the present. The past’s dark hold on him became impossible to ignore at random moments, spoiling bright days and moments of peace with the pain of remembrance. The things he had seen filled him with fear all over again, and that keen sensation obliterated everything else when it struck. Only in nature had he found peace, and books, and music. Gradually, family and friends were added to that list as he was able to clear his mind enough to enjoy other people’s company again. 

“This place is beautiful. And so warm,” Oliver said. “I’m so sorry that we didn’t get to finish bonding.” 

“Oliver! It never ends. The beginning is frantic, yes, but our connection never ceases. All our lives and beyond, we will be able to talk like this, to be together like this,” Elio said. “I’m just so glad that you feel it too, that it’s real.” 

“The realest thing that’s ever happened to me. Elio, I miss you so much,” Oliver said.

“I’m right here,” Elio said. Oliver traced his finger over Elio’s lips. Elio liked it, it tickled in this way that made shivers race down his body, every nerve called to attention, as if they had been rerouted and all ended at his lips. He felt it everywhere. He licked at Oliver’s finger, playfully. They were both bemused, but also enflamed by that instant passion between them they had both first felt at the carnival. Oliver kissed Elio deeply, his hands cradling Elio’s face. Elio swooned. He felt molten, liquid, or would have been if Oliver wasn’t holding him together with his embrace. This felt so real. As they kissed, Elio remembered what the flowers that surrounded them were called: wulfenia. Elio felt his heartbeat changing. Behind every beat he could feel distress, the words, “Don’t leave me.” He needed more time, more moments just like this, and as the kiss went on he was afraid it would end. Oliver kissed him with ardor that was almost rough, and Elio responded with a fondness he knew carried a shade of desperation. He just wanted to keep being loved like this. Oliver kissed Elio’s neck. Elio sat on Oliver’s lap, and wrapped his arms around his neck, delighting in the pas de deux of their lips and their tongues, in the heat of Oliver’s hands on him. He stared up into the clear blue sky. The sun’s warmth was gracing them as they kissed, but it seemed to become brighter, to be swelling like a lighthouse’s beacon in the dark. Elio opened his eyes. Zelenia, Mafalda, and Marzia were in his room.   
“Oliver,” he said. 

“Don’t talk,” Mafalda said. 

He smelled the earthy, medicinal smell of herbs, and on the bedside table and desk were little candles, each with a dancing, orange, blue hearted flame.  
“Elio, this cannot keep happening,” Zelenia said softly. “You keep opening your mind to them.” 

“Oliver isn’t one of them. He’s my soulmate. That’s why we can speak in our thoughts, in our dreams,” Elio said. “Now that he is Maladante, it is too dangerous. You must try to forget him,” Zelenia said.

Marzia pointedly said nothing, and he knew that she had told Zelenia and Mafalda that she had helped Elio leave his body to see Oliver at the fortress. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even afraid. He felt alive, and safe, with Oliver. He had always felt drawn to him, and sure of him. He knew that he would see him again, somehow. The women put cool cloths to his forehead. Elio rested into their loving touch. 

Once again, Elio had disappeared from his arms. It was like trying to hold the wind. Oliver had known he was dreaming. All dreamers do. But, the strange part was, he felt like he had only slept because Elio was sleeping. Before that, music had poured into his mind like the ocean flooding a sinking ship, and he had recognized it as “Claire de Lune”. It was as clear as if Elio was in the same room, playing it on the piano. Oliver listened to the music, feeling his heart overflow with warmth. It was the most beautiful gift anyone had ever given him. Elio was a gift. The waters of the lake lapped at the shore, and the moonlight flooded the room. The music and the moonlight, and the water all seemed to be made of the same substance, and Oliver felt bathed in them. He thought of the lines from “Rosalind and Helen”, and felt the giver’s anxiety that Elio would gladly receive his gift in this exchange. He felt Elio’s love for the poem, and this made Oliver feel even more warmth. Their feelings were like two rivers meeting in a bay, spilling out into the wider ocean, particles colliding, becoming one. He woke up in the field of wulfenia, if opening your eyes to a dream was waking up at all. They kissed, and Oliver felt like he could finally breathe as he drank the air from Elio’s mouth. Now, he was truly awake. They were always meeting again, and parting. It was torture. Oliver wanted to be back in Elio’s bed at the palazzo, in his arms. Instead, he was at Castel Wulfstan. He had never left.   
A knock on his door got his attention.   
Dr. Gristwood opened it.“Good morning, Mr. Wolffstan,” she said. “

"You can call me Oliver,” he said.She frowned. 

“We’ll be running some tests, today,” she said.

“That’s it?” Oliver said. “

"What were you expecting?” she said. 

“Well, since the moon is full tonight, I was kind of expecting the whole shebang,” Oliver said. “Manacles, and one of those masks over my face like Hannibal Lecter.” 

“Not if the medication is serving its purpose,” Dr Gristwood said. 

“Oh. So, I’m not going to transform?” Oliver said. “what about Dan and Jen?” 

“They are no longer our concern,” Dr. Gristwood said. 

Oliver was mystified, but he knew that Dr Gristwood didn’t like to discuss possibly upsetting things with him. He didn’t ask any further questions, and even let orderlies that followed a few seconds after the doctor’s arrival help him into a wheelchair. He thought it was a bit much, he could walk just fine, but the doctor was the kind of person one never thought of arguing with. As they wheeled Oliver down the corridor beneath a vaulted ceiling, he noticed Daphne in a room whose large wooden door was open. She was in a big cardigan, pajama pants, and her college sweatshirt.

“Ollie!” she said, and ran out to the hallway. She asked Dr. Gristwood, “Are you moving him?” 

“He’s being taken for testing,” Dr. Gristwood said stiffly. 

“How are you, Daph?” he asked her.Daphne’s face fell, and she said,“I’m being released.”

“Aren’t you happy?” Gristwood asked. 

“Of course. But, I feel so different. I wouldn’t know how to just sit in a class, or go to the gym, after everything we’ve seen,” Daphne said. 

“You’re lucky to be able to go back to it all,” Oliver said. 

“I’m sorry, Ollie,” Daphne said. 

Oliver said, with wry bemusement, “My mom always says, ‘Don’t say that you’re sorry, it’s the situation that’s sorry.’ I get it now. We can’t apologize to each other forever, Daph. How were you supposed to know that werewolves are real?”

“Well, they are, and now I don’t know if that’s my new normal, or if I should try to go back to the old normal,” Daphne said. “But its different for you…”

“Perhaps that’s a conversation the two of you can have at a later date,” Gristwood said. 

Somehow, despite her frostiness, Oliver knew she meant well. She knocked on large wooden doors at the end of the corridor, and it reminded Oliver of Parliament in the U.K ceremonially barring the door to the sovereign. The doors opened for Dr. Gristwood, however. The rest of the afternoon passed in a slow-motion blur. He was taken to different rooms, and fitted with electrodes here, unsightly helmets there, his blinks and breath and blood pressure measured. He was watched by doctors on the other side of observation windows, or they moved around him having mumbled conversations, showing each other their clipboards and never addressing him. In some of the tests, he just had to lay very still or even sleep. It was almost relaxing, to give up control like this, all of these hands shepherding him and voices directing him. It made him feel like this problem, his lycanthropy, really could be solved. He could be with Elio, soon, cured, his disease under control. Above all, he hoped they could take care of the dementia that threatened to wipe out his mind. Running on a treadmill reminded him of the video for “In da Club” by 50 Cent, but he didn’t share this reflection with Dr. Gristwood or her colleagues.   
“Very good,” she said, signifying that they were done. 

He wasn’t sure how long all this had gone on. There were so many tests, so many devices, so many doctors who seemed to be consulting with Gristwood. 

“Busy morning?” He looked up, as he was being wheeled to his next stop, and was glad to see Nzinga. 

“Yeah, but it’s all worth it,” he said cheerfully.

“That’s a really great outlook. You know, a positive outlook helps the healing process,” she said. 

“I can’t take all the credit. Its Elio. I feel like he’s beside me,” Oliver said. 

“Elio?” Nzinga asked.Dr. Gristwood looked displeased. She seemed to believe all personal discussions were possibly too upsetting in Oliver’s condition.

“Elio Visconti,” Oliver said, although he was just assuming Elio’s family name. He didn’t know Elio’s birthday, his star sign, his favorite color. But his dear face and the music of his soul had become so familiar, so essential so quickly . 

“Well, sounds like he’s special to you,” Nzinga said. She, at least, seemed to approve. She continued, “since the moon is full tonight, we just want to keep you as relaxed and comfortable as possible, stabilized, to help the medicine you’re being given do its thing.”

“Sounds good. Whatever it takes,” Oliver said. “Are Dan and Jen not recovering quite as well?” 

“Oliver, they escaped with Willem,” Nzinga said.

“But, their choices have no bearing on what course your recovery will take,” Gristwood said firmly. 

Dan and Jen were now truly Maladanti. Oliver’s first thought is that they couldn’t help it. They must have lost their reason, and without it, were easy prey for Willem’s ability to manipulate their mind and lure them as he had Oliver, to Fernando’s café. He was upset, but tried to do the breathing exercises he had learned in his last session with Nzinga. Elio, Elio, Elio, said his heartbeat, his breath. Only a calm mind could reunite him with Elio. They had kissed in a field of wulfenia, in a pool at the end of a waterfall, but those were just dreams. He needed to be truly by his side again. It hurt not to be with him, but the hope of being with him again kept him calm and convinced that he could do this, he could be good, he could get better. 

Nzinga’s treatments were vastly different than the biofeedback tests he had finished with Gristwood’s team. He was a little skeptical as she explained that the body contained tiny liquid crystals, that oscillated in accord with different energetic vibrations and communicated these vibrations to tissues in the body. The moon overloaded werewolves’ body with energy, and this stimulated floods of hormones to saturate the organs, which were responsible for the seeming change from man to wolf and back again. 

“So, they don’t really become wolves?” Oliver asked. 

“Lycanthropes-werewolves, if you will-certainly don’t appear human any longer, but that’s due to the dramatic changes the body undergoes,” Nzinga said. “What we’re going to do is energetically ground your body. “ 

He was uncomfortable, at first, when he was asked to undress, but he figured it was all for his treatment, nothing sleazy, why hold back? He was helped into a bath full of bentonite clay, which Nzinga described as neutralizing. It felt like rich, wet, viscous mud, and was warm and soothing, dark and earthily fragrant. As he relaxed, he waited to feel Elio’s presence, to fall into a living dream of him, but that wasn’t to be. In the warm, soothing clay bath, he thought about Elio, but unlike with the biofeedback tests he had been left alone in a stone room. He thought about making love to Elio at the palazzo, Elio kissing him, Elio inside him, the first man he had ever made love to, after wanting it and denying himself for so long.   
Oliver felt a kiss pressed to his neck, and he exhaled, closing his eyes to savor it. Hands teased his nipples, and teased his anus. Pleasure rushed up his spine, and as he grew hard he felt hands in the dark clay, stroking him.

“Elio…..” he sighed, surrendering to his lover’s invisible touch. 

“So that’s his name. You wouldn’t tell me, before,” Willem said. His whisper was like a dark vine winding through Oliver’s mind, a feather’s touch along his skin. But, his presence had hands, too, and was stroking Oliver’s cock.   
“Leave Elio alone,” Oliver said. “You’ve done enough to him.” 

“I’ve done nothing. Have the Hunters taught you that we’re all the same?” Willem said. “It’s not true. Why didn’t you come to me? Like you did before. Your friends did, but they’re not exactly stimulating company. I’m waiting for you.” 

“Willem, I can’t….” Oliver said. “You escaped, why? ”

“Because men don’t belong in cages, Oliver,” Willem said. 

“Maybe the Hunters could have helped you,” Oliver said. 

“They’re not helping you, Oliver. They’re poisoning you,” Willem said. “Dulling your senses, so you’ll be docile, never ask questions, let them endlessly poke and prod you in the name of science. What do you get out of being their good little specimen? I thought you wanted the world. I saw this sublime hunger in your eyes when we met. Such a passion for all you had never tasted. It was beautiful. I thought, at last, I’d found my companion. One worthy of this gift.”

His words, his touch, Oliver felt like he was sinking into it. But Willem wasn’t Elio. He had to get better. If he was human, he could be with Elio. He didn’t want to be a Maladanti. 

“Let me set you free. Come with me,” Willem said, the psychic presence of him touching Oliver all over, it had many hands, he could feel it stroking his cock roughly, the way he would have done it himself while watching gay porn and trying to get off hard and intensely so he could fall asleep, so deeply asleep he didn’t dream of all he wanted, he felt as if he was being penetrated, as if Willem was inside him. Oliver opened his legs, and though he felt that delicious, stinging fullness, only he was in the tub, and the water splashed around him as he writhed in the bath. He wanted it, but he didn’t want to want it, and as the feelings went on, he could only give in, his body a riot of sensation as the clay bath lapped at his lower body, as if his body had become the shore of the lake. Willem was inside him, and moved hard, deep, slow, grinding. But, Elio…he was afraid to summon him into his thoughts, afraid that Willem would hurt him.

“I won’t touch him. I don’t care about him. You belong with me,” Willem said. 

He thought of the field of wulfenia. He wanted that again. He wanted the sunlight, not the subterranean world in the heart of the immortal mountains' caves, as Gristwood had told him the Maladanti lived in. He wanted the light, with Elio, to kiss him awake as they had kissed in their shared dreams.

“Oliver? Is everything all right in there?” Nzinga said, when she came back to the room to check on him. 

Willem was gone. Oliver was exhausted. He understood now, why Elio was haunted by being psychically attacked. He was breathless as his body and mind became his own again.


	15. Chapter 15

“All that is good, to the Sun is in tune/ but the Sun is eclipsed by the Moon…”  
-“Brain Damage” by Pink Floyd (dedicated to Syd Barrett)

 

Marzia opened the door. “Fernando! Claude!” she said, and gave them the customary air kisses in greeting.  
They returned her greeting and entered the villa.  
“Will you be reopening the café?” she asked. “I miss it there.” Even before she was taken in by Donna Zelenia, the bookstore is where she would go when the fighting at her home became too much. She loved her mother, but they didn’t get along even before she remarried. When she did, it became clear that her stepfather liked her about as much as God likes sin, and she waited for her mother to take a big stand and defend her. It didn’t happen. She had always been closer to her grandmother, who told her all the old village legends of wise witches and good werewolves. She taught her to leave her body, a great skill to have when one wants to escape home.  
“I’m glad you always felt safe there, my dear, but it might be time for me to retire. When one runs a bookstore, there is sadly no time to read books. I have a lot of Elena Ferrante to catch up on,” Fernando joked.  
“You’re closing because of what happened to that American,” she said. “He is like an albatross! Because of him, Elio hates me.”  
“Are Pierrot and Pierrette fighting? It will blow over,” Claude said. “You’re young.”  
Fernando gave him a look, that Marzia’s feelings should be taken seriously.  
“I’m not angry at you because of Oliver,” Elio said, coming down the stairs.  
“Both of you, what is going on?” Fernando asked.  
“Oliver is my soulmate. I know it. But Zelenia says now that he is a Maladante, it is impossible,” Elio told Fernando.  
“And Zelenia is quite right,” Claude said.  
“And Marzia? She says the two of you have disagreed. About Oliver?” Fernando asked.  
“He left his body, twice, to see him at Castel Wulfstan. At first I helped him, but it was killing him, I can’t help him anymore,” Marzia said.  
“Fair enough,” Claude said. “Elio, the Maladanti almost stole your life once.”  
Elio didn’t need to be reminded. He remembered exactly how the town square had looked below the bell tower of the old cathedral in town, and the abrupt return to awareness that had seized him and stopped him before he jumped. His whole soul had gone into the effort to balance himself and not fall to his death.  
“Fernando, you met Oliver. He was human, and he’s not like them. He was bitten. He’s a victim,” Elio said.  
“He was a lovely boy. Shy, but curious, smart, and very kind. Very, very kind to Genaro,” Fernando said.  
“But?” Elio said.  
“But, if he can retain those things about himself, there will still be his nature to contend with,” Fernando said delicately.  
“Are those things not his nature?” Elio said. “Why is what is physical more important than your…..personality?”  
They were interrupted by Zelenia. “Claude! Fernando!” She greeted them with hugs, rather than ladylike air kisses. Zelenia had always reminded Elio of the goddess Minerva-direct, simple, strong.  
“We are so glad to have you both,” she told them. After looking around at Elio and Marzia’s faces, she said, “Is everything all right?”  
“Yes, fine,” Marzia lied.  
“Elio, come with me, to the garden,” Zelenia said.  
It was afternoon, the drowsy hour when the sun is highest and hottest, just as it was in Elio’s dream, at the end when the light intruded, and he had to leave Oliver. They walked to the edge of the orchard, to the table beneath a tree, off a small clearing where the first of many old statues stood. They were scattered all over the property, secret markers leading to the grove where their rites would begin that night.  
“We need to talk about Oliver Wolffstan. Curious name, don’t you think? The same as the Hunter’s fortress. That can’t be a coincidence,” Zelenia said.  
“ ‘What’s in a name?’” Elio quoted.  
“Everything,” Zelenia said. “they can reveal quite a lot about someone.”  
“I don’t think so. Someone else chooses a name for you, or it is passed down to you in a chain of relations beginning with distant figures you’ll never know. Names are a matter of chance,” Elio said.  
“Is there a chance, any at all, that he is Benandanti? That is the only way I could allow this,” Zelenia said.  
“I don’t know. We talked about it, but we were only joking, really. Do you really think he could be dangerous?” Elio said.  
“Yes. Even if he strives to retain his noble instincts, he could find himself the pawn of those with other intentions,” Zelenia said. “Promise me, Elio, you won’t put yourself through the ordeal which Marzia reported to me, in order to contact him, ever again.”  
“What about her role in this?” Elio said.  
“I’m not pleased that she helped you to do this thing. But I know what it’s like not to be able to say no to the people you care about, when you fear they are the only people who ever will. What wouldn’t we do, in that frame of mind? She comes from a chaotic home, and isn’t quite used to the notion that she has a family who wants her around, who doesn’t see her in terms relative to usefulness, convenience, failure, or charm. We care for her, but she doesn’t see it yet,” Zelenia said.  
Elio felt guilt writhe in his stomach. He slept with Marzia although they weren’t in a relationship, and wheedled her to help him project his spirit outside of his body. Perhaps he had been the worst of what she suspected all people could be, interested in using her to an end. Had he ever let her know what appreciation he had for her strength, her sensitivity, her loyalty and ability to be a true companion-not jealous, competitive, or disinterested? She prized friendship far higher than the kind of love he had found with Oliver, but Elio feared her choice in friends was poor. He would be a better friend, he resolved. The perfect life would be to have her, and Oliver, foremost in his life, two brilliant stars that eclipsed all others.  
“I care for Marzia. I think she knows that. I hope that she does,” Elio said. “I shouldn’t have asked for her help, but you must see: I wouldn’t have done anything so desperate if I wasn’t sure.”  
“I understand,” Zelenia said neutrally.  
Ardor wouldn’t move her. She was after the truth, and sadly the plot may not always be known to the actors on the stage. Her ‘I understand’ meant only, ‘I hear that you believe this.’ Some other power may lie beneath everything.  
“Tell me, exactly, how you met,” she said.  
“Marzia and I didn’t want to wait for the moon. We transformed, we ran, and we came to a youth hostel for young travelers, the same one the Maladanti targeted last week. I saw Oliver. He was with Willem,” Elio said.  
“The Maladanti who bit him? Willem Odenwald? Does that not strike you as suspicious?” Zelenia said.  
“No. They’d staked the place out, we know this,” Elio said.  
“Yes, precisely. But what if your Oliver was under their influence? A human servant? They are good at matching the humans’ expectations, what they have derived from certain films and books, wherein the vampire or werewolf turns out to be not a creature or a fiend, but a tragically wounded hero whose soul can be saved by love, whose humanity can be reawakened after a long sleep by the purity and beauty of a human’s regard. The ultimate apollonian humanist fantasy, that to be loved by a being as superior as a human can be grace,” Zelenia said. “You’ll probably not believe me, Elio. At your age, whatever you have not encountered or can’t comprehend is laughable. But, believe me, there are those who consider it an ambrosial pleasure to be fed on by a Maladante calling himself a vampire. It is a word redolent with a certain romance for them. They have a spell over the human imagination that has become irresistibly erotic.”  
“If that were true, Aunt Zelenia, Oliver would not be able to resist Willem,” Elio said.  
“And, so far, he has not. I understand he left your bed at the palazzo when his Master called him to his side,” Zelenia rejoined.  
Some thought her sharp, shrewish, a typical bitter spinster who, her own hopes long ago blighted and her days marching on in dull self-interested sameness as she had no husband or child, had no regard for others, or any tenderness. Elio, unlike some in her coven, because she was his aunt and she had housed and cared for him for years now, knew her decisive kindness. She valued truth over flattery, revered the truth even when she knew it would disrupt order or obliterate cherished pet delusions. This one, however, left his senses ringing with the sodden, distasteful humiliation she was notorious for provoking in others.  
“Allow me to tell you the whole story,” Elio said.  
“Yes, go on,” she said.  
“I saw him with Willem. I do believe that at that time, he thought he was just another traveler, a friend he had met on his journey. Oliver, his girlfriend, Daphne, who came to the Palazzo in the company of Hunter Masanori, and their friends Dan and Jen, who were bitten, were all travelling together. I don’t know if he was as happy as he would have been travelling alone. Anyway, he was swimming with Willem. Marzia and I watched them,” Elio said.  
“What was so interesting about two young men swimming?” Zelenia asked.  
“Well…. They were……” Elio said.  
“Naked. You were attracted to them,” Zelenia said.  
“To Oliver,” Elio said.  
“Did he seem to notice you?” She asked.  
“No. Not until later that day. When we went to the Carnival, I saw him again. He was coming out of Claude’s and I was across the street. Our eyes met, and it was…strange. I felt like I recognized someone I knew, someone who had been lost to me and was now returned, who had been on a long journey and was now in my sight once again,” Elio said.  
“I see. You think he is your soulmate because of how you felt then?” she asked.  
“Yes,” Elio said. “He followed me, and we…..we kissed at the city wall, where the village ends at the river.”  
“Where was Marzia?” Zelenia asked.  
“She’d gone on her way. But, she was accosted by the Maladante who had snuck into the village, that the Prince decided to deal with for you, so as not to trouble you,” Elio said.  
“Ah, yes. I was hoping he would stay and pass the moon with us, Balthasar. He has lost much. He’s become a restless wanderer, but unlike Cain he bears no mark. He would be welcome anywhere he chose to stay,” Zelenia said.  
“I think Marzia is in love with him,” Elio said.  
“I hope not. She would find herself utterly frustrated,” Zelenia said. “But, we are talking about you. So, you followed Oliver, or he followed you, you kissed, and at this time Marzia was being roughly handled by the Maladanti youths who trespassed on our village. I don’t reproach you. I’m merely establishing a timeline. Do I have it right?”  
“Yes, you have it right. She came up to us, distressed. We immediately started back to the Palazzo, and we came upon Balthasar and Rainier Ravensberg, the alchemist, who calmed Marzia down and advised us to say nothing to you,” Elio said.  
“And had I any dominion over them, I would be very displeased. But, they are my friends, and I think they were trying to help,” Zelenia said.  
“They were. We had no idea that once they left the village, they would target the humans at the hostel,” Elio said. “Anyway, before we left the carnival, I asked Oliver to meet me at the city wall, at midnight. He did, and we returned to the palazzo.”  
“You were intimate. How did you feel? Did you see his thoughts? Did you feel the resonance of his emotions? Think carefully, and don’t color your memory with your wishes,” Zelenia said.  
“I was afraid that I was doing just that. I’m not a virgin, you know that. I see now I should have waited until I’d found someone I love this much. I know the difference between this and infatuation, or the terror of loneliness, or a promising moment of physical stimulation taking hold of your senses and goading you on. This was something else. I was completely seized by it then, and I’m in awe of it now,” Elio said.  
“I see,” Zelenia said. “So, even as you were with him, making plans to meet, Marzia was being harassed. You first saw him in the company of the Maladante who is his Master now, and when you saw him again, he lured you away from Marzia. Then, he ran away from you to join him.”  
“He was psychically compelled to come to Willem, who bit him,” Elio said.  
“That may have been a bit of theater for our benefit, combined with a promise kept. It is not uncommon for the Maladanti to promise to make their human servant like them, to finally administer the bite that will infect them, in exchange for a service rendered. It is something the humans invented in their Gothic tales, that the Maladanti have seized on to coerce them to do their bidding. What will people not dare in the name of sex and eternal life?” Zelenia marveled.  
“You don’t trust anyone,” Elio said.  
“No,” she said. “I have too many people to protect. I know what kind of Donna your mother would have been, Elio, and I am not her. The rituals, such as we will observe this evening, bring us together and observe the continuity of our people. But, only in that context do they matter. If the Maladanti were permitted to do terrorize us freely, and I did nothing, then our coven would lose all hope, and after it faith, and we would scatter, as so many races on this earth are scattered, and their gods and languages die. So I have to consider everything, before I trust.”  
“So, you have made up your mind. Don’t patronize me. Tell me what you have decided, but spare me the illusion that what I say will influence you one way or another,” Elio said.  
“You are not well. Don’t you see that? You feel nothing similar to what you felt when they tried to enthrall you and, failing that, because your will and your courage was too much for their spells, to destroy you? They have only changed tactics,” Zelenia said. “You are at the very age when the promise of an adventure such as this would convince you of any rash act. Love, with a handsome stranger from far away, who meets you in secret.”  
“No. This isn’t some ploy. No one is influencing me, or seducing me,” Elio said.  
“Mary Wollstonecraft said that man doesn’t choose evil because it is evil, but because he mistakes it for good,” Zelenia said.  
“Oliver is good, that I haven’t mistaken. He’s kind, and gentle,” Elio said.  
“If that is true, then I am sure the Hunters will do everything in their power to help him,” Zelenia said. Elio knew she was changing tactics but driving at the same goal.  
“I think he’s happy to be in their care. Well, not happy, but I know he wants to get better. Do you think he has a chance of that?” Elio said.  
“I cannot say. I have seen miracles, I have seen horrors,” Zelenia said. “where scientists apply their focus to penetrate the secrets of a disease or a possible cure, who can say what ills won’t be cured, how much certain despair can be converted to new hope? For your friend’s sake, I hope that they intend to restore him, and not to detain him for the sake of their purposes, in the effort to help others who follow after him in this plight.”  
“Speak plainly,” Elio said.  
“If your friend is not the willing minion of the Maladanti, if he does want to be cured, perhaps the Hunters will trespass on his willingness,” Zelenia said.  
“Make a guinea pig out of him, you mean? That would be horrible. He’s a human being!” Elio said.  
“Not in their eyes, I suspect,” Zelenia said. “He is not a human any longer, nor is he a lycanthrope of any kind that they would consider a threat to them, making him less than a threat-a possession.”  
Elio was furious at the idea that Oliver belonged to anyone, that anyone had the power to keep them apart. They belonged together! They had been happy and free in their dreams, and he despaired to suspect that such liberty did not exist for them in the waking world.  
They would have to seize their freedom, together. It had all happened so quickly, their separation, and Elio saw now that Oliver needed to be freed from Castel Wulfstan. But, how? Would Hunter Masanori help? He had shown promising agency in sneaking Daphne into the fortress, saying she needed to be checked for evidence of psychic attack. Could Daphne herself play some part? The trouble was, Elio had no way to contact either of them.  
“Go, rest, now. You need it, after what you put yourself through. No more of that. I would even advise guarding your dreams,” Zelenia said.  
Elio merely nodded but kept to himself that he had felt a presence watching him, which must have been Willem, the first time he and Oliver had shared a dream. But, it would be hard to deny himself the chance to see and touch his beloved.  
“Zelenia!” Marzia approached them. “the Hunter and the human are here.”  
“Oliver? He’s here?” Elio said.  
“Ah, no. The girlfriend. Sorry!” Marzia said.  
Sorry, indeed. Little minx! How Elio loved her, despite her cruelty. She was also nurturing and patient, in her way. He loved her small, soft body, and her voice, her hair. It just wasn’t what he felt with Oliver. They were essential to him, both of them, but in different ways. If put to it, he didn’t know if he could ever say good bye to either of them, but separation from Oliver felt like a threat of some fatal action. It hurt, as nothing had hurt him, just as his presence made him feel love and happiness he hadn’t known before. It was only one night, but it had changed him just as surely as Willem’s bite had changed Oliver.  
“May I come with you?” Elio asked.  
Zelenia nodded. This concerned him. They went back to the villa. Mafalda, and some helpers temporarily engaged from the village, were preparing the coven’s meal for the night. They would eat, say the traditional blessings and litanies in the old language, then gather outside around the fire for prayers and songs to the moon, the mother moon, the compassionate moon, soft and powerful when full, stirring the ocean’s waves, the poet’s mind, and the blood of such creatures who feel extravagant ecstasy upon swallowing her light. They would transform and run in the forests of Elio’s ancestors. They ran, and now it was just for joy, but in former times they did route out the Maladante where they found them, keeping them back from the border of the village and the lands around it. Retaliatory malice and diabolical ideology led them to attack the fields and vineyards that belonged to the humans of the region, and the Maladante delighted in being able to awe them into terror of famine, which had ominous significance to a religious mind. But, after the erosion of the Church’s power in the face of war, political suppression, and science, religious minds could not be counted on. Faith, the people may have, but in some it takes the shape of elemental instinct found in quiet reflection or ecstatic sensory experience. The dictates of one religious body or another are still, with success, impressed upon people with shame and terror, but in Europe these tactics had long been in competition with atheism and indifference. The Maladantis’ tactics changed, and so did the vigilance of the Benandanti in keeping them at bay. Zelenia, however, still sincerely believed in the charge to protect humans from their assaults.  
They met Kenji and Daphne in a sitting room whose crowning feature was the Baroque painting “The Rape of Proserpine” by Simone Pignoni. Proserpine, or Persephone, was dressed in white and crowned with a wreath. She was a robust, healthy looking auburn haired girl, and light shone on her shoulders and bosom. The Lord of the Dead reached out to her, from the shadows, bearded and swarthy, with a grim countenance.  
Kenji spoke first, as they all took their seats on the eighteenth century couches.  
“We were hoping your offer to Daphne still stood. She wants to stay in Italy for the duration of Oliver’s recovery, but it doesn’t make sense for her to be at the fortress anymore,” Kenji said.  
“Yes, of course. You’re a human, who has been terrorized by the Maladante. It is our duty to protect you from them,” Zelenia said. “Tonight, all of our coven gathers. We’ll explain that you are under our protection.”  
“Thank you so much, Signorina Visconti. This place is so lovely. It’s the opposite of the fortress,” Daphne said. She turned to Kenji and added, “No offense.”  
“I didn’t decorate the place,” he said with a shrug.  
Elio couldn’t help it, he laughed. This earned him Kenji’s attention.  
“How are you?” he asked. He didn’t call him ‘buddy’ or ‘kid’, Elio noticed.  
“Oliver and I have been in contact, mentally. He trusts you. The Hunters, I mean. Should he?” Elio asked.  
“He’s got some good people on his team. Diana Gristwood, Nzinga Wheatley-they’re great doctors,” Kenji said. “They have two totally different approaches, but they both love their work, have compassion for their patients, and would never give up on them.”  
Elio felt himself exhale deeply, and didn’t realize until then, how tense he had been.  
“You’re Benandanti. You’re our allies, especially in this region. If you want to see him, just ask. Who knows, maybe being with his soulmate will have a good effect on his recovery,” Kenji said.  
“Are you a romantic?” Daphne teased.  
“A pragmatist. Mind over matter, right? Good vibes? It could help,” Kenji said.  
“Well, yeah. I could see Nzinga being all over that, Gristwood not so much,” Daphne said.  
“No,” Zelenia said. “Of course we hope that Oliver recovers, but Elio can’t go to Castel Wulfstan, it is too far away.”  
“I can decide,” Elio said.  
“I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries,” Kenji said.  
“Yeah, we’re really sorry,” Daphne said.  
“Don’t apologize. It was really generous. Of course I want to go. I want to,” Elio said. Daphne touched his shoulder. He must look pathetic. He was wearing Oliver’s sweatshirt. He had been wearing it for two days, now. It smelled like the sweat of Elio’s sleep rather than Oliver’s sweat from hiking and exploring the villages. Elio hated all of this. Would it have been better if Oliver had stayed innocent and human, returned to Virginia still dating Daphne, with a few cool vacation photos, never knowing that he existed, never having met him? Elio wished his own life had gone a different way, that he could have stayed in Milan with his parents in their flat, walked to school with his friends every day, had a Bar Mitzvah, gone to high school, instead of learning ways to keep his mind safe, and how to become a wolf by the light of the moon. He loved it, he knew no other life, he wanted to be human again, human as perhaps he never was. Oliver….most of all, he wanted Oliver. His big, strong arms and loving presence, his good intentions, his voice, his kisses….he felt so confused, so alone.  
Zelenia looked at him with concern. “Elio, why don’t you help Daphne get settled in?”  
“Yes,” he said. Daphne picked up her backpack, and she and Elio left the room, taking the stairs.  
“What are you going to tell your family?” Elio said.  
“Oh, about not coming back for the rest of the semester? I haven’t decided yet. Maybe that Ollie and I eloped, dropped out of school, and joined a hippie commune?” Daphne said.  
“Ah, no, that will just make them fly to Italy immediately to find you,” Elio said.  
“Right…okay, how about that I’m modeling in Milan?” Daphne said.  
“Maybe they would believe that,” Elio said. “You’re beautiful.” It was true: tanned skin, sunkissed light brown hair, and engaging dark eyes full of intelligence, kindness, and humor, like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman”, a film Elio’s mother referred to as a “guilty pleasure.”  
“Don’t start thinking like that. Because you’re the first man Ollie’s dated, you can’t trust him not to go back to women, that’s what you’re thinking?” Daphne said.  
“Maybe not in so many words, but I think you have the essence of it, yes,” Elio said.  
“Typical,” Daphne said.  
“How do you know so much about it?” Elio said.  
“I have gay friends! That’s why I think what Oliver did is so ridiculous-there are clubs, and places to go and plenty of people who would have been just fine with it, there was no reason to waste four years of my life, thinking I had a boyfriend who adored me, when he could have just done what he really wanted to do,” Daphne said.  
“I do understand,” Elio said. “this must be hard for you.”  
She sighed. “I don’t know. It’s trivial compared to the rest of it, isn’t it?”  
“Nothing is trivial,” Elio said.  
Daphne smiled. “Thanks. You know, my mom hates complaining. If I have a cold, someone else has the flu. If I’m busy, someone else is exhausted. If I didn’t want what was for dinner, someone else is hungry. I guess that’s just America. We love hard work, results, progress, and winning. We hate emotions that take longer than a laugh or an orgasm to resolve, and complaining is a cry for attention. I guess what I mean is I find it hard to be angry, or feel wronged. I wasn’t raised that way. But this hurts. I miss what I thought I had,” she said. “But, then, I also see that…I could have something a lot richer. The way Oliver feels about you. You inspire him and make him feel alive, and I think that there’s someone out there who could feel like that about me, too.”  
“Daphne, you’re amazing,” Elio said. They hugged. He was so glad to have her friendship. They chose a guest room with two beds, and Daphne filled him in on Oliver’s progress. The doctors she and Kenji had referred two earlier, Gristwood and Nzinga Wheatley, as Kenji said had disparate methods. The former gave him more traditional medication, while the latter applied more holistically based methods with the aim of stabilizing his subtle energies.  
“It sounds as if they are throwing both approaches to the wall, to see what will stick,” Elio said.  
“I guess, but they wouldn’t be unless they were compatible therapies. Maybe one treatment backs the other up,” Daphne said.  
“Is he well?” Elio asked.  
“I don’t see as much of him as I’d like. But, it hit him hard that Dan and Jen escaped, I can tell,” she said. “He’s really into this mindfulness stuff Dr. Wheatley has been teaching him, which is funny because I took him with me to Yoga once and it was laughable. He reads a lot-no surprise there. I think he really wants to get well, and you seem to have a lot to do with that,” Daphne said.  
“Me?” Elio said.  
“I told you, Elio-you’re different. How he feels about you is different,” Daphne said.  
“I love him, too,” Elio said simply.  
“So…I notice these statues everywhere. Like that one, out there,” she said, pointing to the statue beneath the trees, out the window. “Do they have any significance?”  
Elio told Daphne about the Goddess, who was as old as Italy and called Diana, Fauna, Tana, and many other names, sometimes just Bona Dea-the Good Mother. Once, even humans had worshipped her in secret with wine and song. Even the Roman Emperors hadn’t meddled too much with the worship of the Good Mother, and dedicated temples and other building projects to her. In the middle ages, the peasants, oppressed by the noblemen who owned their land and essentially owned them, too, weaved together a fairy tale like worship that spoke to their wish for liberation from and vengeance against their landlords, a private heresy in which the old goddess Diana sent her daughter Aradia to earth as a savior just as God had sent the Christ, but to teach the commons magic rather than faith for their salvation.  
“What do you believe, Elio?” Daphne said.  
Elio sprawled out on one of the twin beds, looking up at the black lace shadows on the ceiling, from the afternoon sun striking the tree by the window.  
“I don’t know. My parents always said I could choose my own faith, but I could tell my dad wanted me to lean towards his own. He is Jewish. It is a religion of fathers and sons, really. A lineage. I think it would mean a lot him. He never pressed, he never said anything directly..but before it all happened, I was going to have a Bar Mitzvah. An old friend of his, a Rabbi, was teaching me Hebrew via Skype,” Elio said.  
“Oh, that’s so cool! Oliver’s Jewish too. I really love his religion. I think I would have converted if we got married. My mom would be horrified,” Daphne said.  
“Ah, so is that what you like about it?” Elio said.  
“If I wanted to shock my parents, I can think of a million other ways,” Daphne said.  
“I see. Yes, I noticed his necklace. It was….more than a coincidence. That was the very thing I felt like I lost when I became a Benandante,” Elio said.  
“I get it. Your religion was a connection with your dad. That’s what a Bar Mitzvah is for, right? You’re a man, you’re entering your father’s world, the world of your community,” Daphne said. “But, if Ollie was here, he’d say, ‘Sure, sure, but it’s really just a chance for rich kids to show off, with a big party.’ He’s so grumpy like that! But don’t let him fool you-he’s very spiritual.”  
“You know him so well. All these years, he’s been your home,” Elio said.  
“I’m my home, Elio. Ollie’s been my best friend, that I have really bad sex with when I’m drunk,” Daphne said. “I was so busy with school I called it a relationship, and it stuck for too long.”  
Elio didn’t know whether to laugh or not.  
“Bad sex? Oliver was really, really good,” Elio said. “I mean, he is the first man I’ve been with, but, still.”  
“Yeah, yeah, but you have the whole soulmate factor, and maybe he’s better with guys,” she said. “either way….I love him, but I just feel like something better is waiting out there for me. My person.”  
“Your person?” Elio said.  
“Yeah! Soulmate is a little dramatic, don’t you think? I know, I know, Plato’s Symposium, but still. In America we say, ‘I’m looking for my person’ or ‘you’re my person’, whatever. It’s like, you’re my best friend and my jail phone call and my emergency contact, and the person I want to climb Mount Everest with,” She said.  
“A partner, as well as a lover,” Elio said.  
“Yes!” Daphne said.  
“If Oliver is my soulmate, he must also be my person. But, why would you want to climb Mount Everest?” Elio asked.  
“Because its there!” Daphne said.  
Elio felt very happy with her friendship, and reassured that Oliver seemed to be recovering. He wanted to give him so much-poetry, music, fresh fruit, good wine, massages, and a blow job. Oh, and a hug. He wanted to give him every sweet thing. He would do so in his dreams, after he had run for joy in the secret depths of the forest, the full moon’s light caressing him and lighting his way. He only wished his beloved could be beside him, since they were both wolves now.  
The rest of the coven arrived as the evening wore on. Elio, Chiara, and Matteo went to the river for a swim while the adults had an aperitivo and talked about art, cinema, fashion, travel, and the headache that was politics, scandal, and corruption in Italy. It was much like the dinner parties Elio’s parents had in Milan, except for the fact that at the Villa Visconti everyone who was now sipping Neapolitan Lachryma Christi and admiring the Visconti’s collection of paintings and books were, later, going to strip off their clothes and become wolves, running through the forest.  
The young people, for their part, had stripped their clothes off, already.  
Elio had never slept with Chiara Benevento. Although Marzia was the greater beauty, she was as remote as the goddess Diana, and just as likely to turn a pack of dogs on a man if he displeased her, as the goddess had Actaeon. Their affair had started on her terms, but Elio didn’t mind this. Chiara was more sensual. Her every move was a subtle little dance, and her body was precociously curvaceous. She had an aquiline nose, and curly light brown hair, as well as very, very dark, round, wide eyes that made her look inviting and willing due to their naughty expression. She was like a naughty nymph who would tease the god Pan all day.  
Matteo couldn’t keep his eyes off her as she took her clothes off. Elio looked at Marzia-her smallish breasts, her round, plump ass and its cute little dimples that, when she was sleepy, sated and docile after their lovemaking, he liked to fit his fingertips into, pausing at each little dimple as he caressed her ass.  
“It’s called cellulite,” she’d said.  
“Well, cellulite is cute,” he’d said, but she protested, and he left it.  
“Go for it,” Elio whispered to him.  
Matteo shook his head.  
“Why not?” Elio asked. “Great body, smart, cute, funny. Bad taste in music, though. Awful, pop stuff they play on the radio. She has no interest in the Arcade Fire.”  
“So, you don’t fuck girls who won’t give indie rock a try?” Matteo asked.  
“That’s about the size of it,” Elio said. He unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, and said. “And, speaking of the size of it, look away, Little Matteo, I don’t want there to be jealousy between us.”  
“Fuck you, Perlman,” Matteo said indifferently, secure in the knowledge that his dick was bigger. The boys laughed, took off their clothes, and joined the girls in the water. The sky was twilight violet, the moon was full and golden over their heads, and Elio felt hopeful and happy in the presence of his friends.


	16. Chapter 16

“Fall upon your knees/ sing ‘This is my body, my soul…”  
-“Blame” Bastille   
“All things pass into the night….”  
-Q Lazarus and the Resurrection, “Goodbye, Horses”

 

“Oliver,” Nzinga asked, “would you like to take a walk?”   
Oliver looked at her in surprise. Since he woke up at the fortress, he hadn’t even walked down the hallway unescorted. He was wheeled to various rooms in a wheelchair as part of his treatments, and spent most of his time alone in his room with books, or practicing the breathwork and meditation Nzinga had taught him. If there were any paper or pencils, he’d write long letters to Abby, Jake, and Elio, but there was none, which made him suspect Gristwood thought it would upset him to engage his mind too deeply. The offer of a walk was almost suspicious.  
“I don’t think I have any shoes,” he said.  
She smiled. “Daphne had some of your things. Your shoes-she figured you’d need them- and a jacket.”  
“She thinks of everything,” Oliver said, and smiled wistfully thinking that Daphne would soon be back at UCV. Richmond was a smallish southern city who’d experienced a modest and unevenly distributed economic bump, and dearly wanted to be the New York City of the south or at least a clone of Atlanta, Georgia but a little farther north. It had its quirky hipster charms. They’d had a life there. Organic coffee, strolls through the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts on lazy Sundays, sitting on a blanket by a pond and staring up at the Darlington oaks at Byrd Park, watching kids feed geese, the occasional show at the Altria or the National. Once they’d gone to a taping of Joseph Gordon Levitt’s show “HitRecord” at the National. Sushi at Sticky Rice, the French Film Festival in the spring, and kayaking around the tiny islands in the James River, hiking or cycling there….it was the kind of place that sucked you in and before you knew it, and you had a routine. Some were turned off by the murder rate, but Oliver knew that just kind of came with living in a city. Every once in a while, you heard a noise or saw something that made you half afraid for half a second, and, like a Zen Buddhist monk, you think, “This could be it.” But, mostly he’d felt safe there. Every once in a while, maybe, he’d Google Godfrey’s, the most popular gay bar in the city, on his phone and the location would show that he was mere blocks from that place, he could walk there, but he never did. He didn’t dance or like getting drunk in public, it wasn’t his scene, those places were for guys who were smaller, thinner, cooler, younger….Elio, basically. But, that was the past. Everything he’d done, everything he hadn’t done there, had come to an end. Daphne would be returning without him.  
He threw on his wind breaker and his hiking shoes that he hadn’t seen in so long, it was only now he realized he hadn’t had shoes on in days. Nzinga led him down a darkly lit hallway, down stairs, like the backup stairwell at a hospital for in case the elevator breaks. He pushed open the heavy metal door, and the light flooded them. It hurt his eyes like sunshine bouncing off fresh snow, at first.  
“It’s okay,” Nzinga said, and rubbed his shoulder.  
When Oliver’s eyes adjusted, he saw the verdure of the forest, and smelled the earth. He smiled. It was so good to breathe in fresh air, and see light filtered a soft green falling between leaves on the trees.  
“Whoa,” he said.  
“I know,” Nzinga said. “I convinced Diana that you could use some air, a chance to stretch your legs. You’ve been so cooperative in all your treatments.”  
“So, this is a Scooby Snack for good behavior? I’ll take it,” he said.  
Nzinga said. “Remember what we said about humor. That’s a really good sign,” she said. They began walking, and he relished that familiar crunch under his feet of layers of fallen leaves, needles, cones, decomposing and nurturing new life, too. The moist, organic smell and the sounds of far away birds were both soothing.  
“Thanks. But, I’m still not clear on something. Am I going to turn tonight, or not?” he asked.  
“That’s a hard question to answer, Oliver. For now, I just want you to remain calm,” Nzinga said. “Walking can be a meditation. Anything you focus on wholeheartedly can be a meditation.”   
After a while the land sloped upwards, and they came to a set of stone stairs built into the earth. Oliver wished Elio was by his side, but that had become so constant that missing him had become a misty doppelganger of his presence, like Eurydice lingering behind Orpheus on their way up from the Underworld. Oliver and Nzinga walked slowly up the mossy steps, a faint mist hanging in the air. They passed through a chasm between mossy boulders as they climbed. The mist graced tiny spiderwebs between branches, and they looked like woven moonlight. Oliver looked up. A small patch of sky was visible between the tops of trees, and there was the pale moon, a translucent film like nails or the obstruction over a blind eye. The moon was never really gone. How the first glimpse of the moon during the daytime throws a child’s binary schema of time out of whack, a thrill of the collision of opposites. Then, one forgets.  
“The moon was thought to cause madness, right? Lunatic, selenophile. Do you think people who got called things like that were….like me?” Oliver said.  
“Possibly,” Nzinga said. “I probably shouldn’t admit this, but it can be hard to make sense of some of our records. Not many people could read and write until a very recent date in human history. Those who could, fluently and articulately, were usually writing with a certain message in mind. They interpreted what they recorded through the filter of their beliefs, their purpose, and their audience. What does it mean when, for instance, we read that the Maladanti snuck into the wine cellars of Friuli and urinated in the wine casks? What would be the point of something so petty?”   
“Easy. They belonged to some noble person or rich landowner, so a crime against the wine was a crime against the landowners, making finding every Maladanti out there and burning them at the stake or whatever top priority. Purely a financial concern, a claim like that, to make people think the Maladanti were an immediate threat to commerce,” he said.  
Nzinga looked impressed. “That’s one way to look at it. Pretty good.”  
“My dad would be proud, finally, I guess. He’s a lawyer,” he said.   
“Are you a law student?” she asked.  
“Decidedly not,” Oliver said. “But, I inherited his healthy suspicion.”  
“I’m sure plenty of people, rich or no, genuinely believed in good and evil,” Nzinga said.  
Oliver couldn’t disagree. He couldn’t be cynical, in light of the things he had experienced, and hearing as much as he had about the Benandante and the Hunters’ efforts to protect humans from harm and harassment. Maybe for guys like his dad, the truth was malleable, raw material that could be shaped for their purposes. Some people lived that way. There was no accounting for some people. But there were more dire consequences than victory and loss for either’s own sake, and he was living in the midst of that now.   
The stairs led to an incredible view of a waterfall tumbling, white, frothing, with immense force, into a river tumbling just as powerfully over dark boulders that shone with the spray of water. He thought of Willem, he thought of Elio, how could he not? He thought of himself, just a few days before, how he had changed. We know ourselves least and best, and have every right to mark the changes in our condition. Perhaps even a duty to do so, in order to face our present circumstances with all the courage of our understanding. The roar of water filled his mind, and Nzinga’s steady presence made him feel he was in the company of a true friend. He was sure that he could face the night.  
“We should head back, Ollie,” Nzinga said. “Is it okay if I call you that?”  
He smiled. “Everyone does. I guess ‘Oliver’ is a little too serious?”  
“You’re a very serious person,” Nzinga said, smiling at him fondly. Oliver smiled too. He felt hopeful. As they walked back the way they came, he took in all the charming scenery all over again. He stopped at a lookout post, leaning on it for support when the pain came. It was almost pleasure, sharp and half sweet, shocking, good but to intense, very nearly like a climax. The cold air and mist touched his face like the hands of merciful goddesses who collect men from battlefields. He felt Nzinga’s hands on his shoulders, petting him patiently the way his mother did in his childhood, when he had stomach flu. Indeed, he felt a strong, hot wave of nausea now, warring with this pleasurable pain for his attention.  
“Breathe, Ollie,” She said. He did so, even when it hurt. Eventually, he caught his breath in earnest.  
“What was that?” he gasped.  
“It’s normal, since the moon is full. But, in some ways, it is also cause for alarm. We gave you your last dose three and a half hours ago. The half life of that particular drug is three hours,” Nzinga said.  
“Half life?” Oliver said.  
“The absorption,” She said. “it shouldn’t be wearing off this quickly. You should have another four hours, then another dose, which was going to be after your energy treatments.”  
“More treatments? Will I have to do this every week once a month? How am I ever going to have a job, a life?” Oliver said.  
“Oliver! Calm down,” Nzinga said. “Let’s go back to the castle.”  
Nzinga was a small woman, and Oliver thought they must look ridiculous, their arms linked and him all but leaning on her as they walked. But, appearances didn’t matter with the verdant earth as their only witness.   
She let him go only to open the heavy door to the fortress, and they mounted the stairs in the dark corridor. Nzinga pulled her smartphone from her pocket, and called Gristwood. She came to Oliver’s room to examine him.  
“We still have a chance. We can stabilize him. But this is alarming,” Diana said.  
‘Alarming’ was by far the most heated phrase he had heard her use in his presence since arriving.   
“Why?” Oliver said.  
‘Just say it. Just say it,’ he thought. It was going to be tonight. He could feel it. The ache, the call, the pleasure, the heat, the yearning, almost like arousal, but it wasn’t another person he desired, it was the moon, the night, the world. He wanted to swallow the sun…  
“I have to consult with the rest of my team. Do you think your methods can stabilize him in the meantime?” Gristwood said.  
“I think my methods will do just fine,” Nzinga said, with a hint of sarcasm. Oliver liked her, a lot.  
Gristwood left, Nzinga said she’d be right back, and for a few minutes, Oliver was alone. In pain, overheated, but, okay. No worse than flu or the swollen pain of a broken bone at night, really. Neither of his parents really liked bellyaching. Of course, his mother had tended to him when he was ill, so ill he had to miss school, but after a certain point he could feel her pulling away. His father, on the other hand, seemed proudest when Oliver was grinning and bearing it. He could only think that their parents, from Russia and Germany, respectively, had instilled this stoicism in them, the inheritance of their childhoods in war torn lands, and they had in turn applied it to him, even though they both insisted on a certain homogenous, polished, unquestionably upper middle-class American life. His grandmother, however, on his father’s side, had a certain rustic sensitivity to nature and silence, and Oliver had so loved to be around her. Nothing had been the same since she died. He felt a lack of patience with life, or at least with the way he had been living his life. Time felt short. He was sick of the lies, and the ‘old dispensations’, as T.S. Eliot had said. The Magi had seen birth, Oliver had seen death, and he wanted something different. Maybe that was what he had been looking for on this trip to Italy. Dan and Jen had been all for Florida, of course, beaches and drunken parties, and even Daphne had been surprised when he seemed genuinely enthusiastic about her idea, backpacking in rural Italy. Sure, he loved nature, but he didn’t assert himself in group debates like that. He had been looking, and he had been found.   
Nzinga returned. “Take your clothes off,” she said.  
“I’m flattered, but spoken for,” he said.  
“So am I. We might have different approaches to life and our profession, but…you know. There are other, more important things,” she said.  
It took Oliver a minute to compute what she was saying, but then he said, “Gristwood? She’s your….”  
“Yes,” she said.   
“She’s not into PDA, apparently,” Oliver said. “I never would have known.”  
“She’s very, very private. But, we have our time. Being here, at Castel Wulfstan, has been the only time we’ve been stationed in the same place. I know what its like to be separated from the person you love,” she said.  
“On paper, I barely know Elio. But I know him, you know?” he said.  
“I do,” she said. “Think about Elio. Oh, and take your clothes off.”  
Oliver undressed, and next Nzinga instructed him to lay down. He did so, and Nzinga began to lay pellucid, pointed crystals on his body.  
“Um….you want to explain this?” he said.  
“We’re massaging your meridians, the energy channels in your subtle body,” she said.   
“Okey-dokey, I won’t ask any more questions,” he said. He felt the cool, palpable energy of the crystals like a mist over his skin. Daphne had a few crystals, smudged with sage sometimes, and went to Yoga class, so he wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the metaphysical properties of crystals, it just wasn’t his world. But, he felt calmer, and the pain, he found, was actually leaving him.

Elio  
“We should go inside,” Matteo said. His father, Massimo, was Captain. In former times, it would have been his job to round up the Benandante, the young men, to fight the Maladante, but those days were over, long gone. It was a ceremonially post now, inherited, and really just meant that he was Zelenia’s bete noire, questioning all her decisions and criticizing her bitterly whenever anyone would listen. So, people mostly avoided him, and luckily he was so self- important he didn’t realize he was little liked. Matteo was embarrassed of his father, and nothing like him.   
“Parents are accidents of fate. They may have asked for us, we didn’t ask for them,” he had told Elio once. Elio didn’t hate his parents, but he missed them and wished he belonged in their human world of museum exhibits and new films and novels, of favorite restaurants and….home.  
Matteo put his clothes back on, looking absorbed in thought. Elio was surprised when he turned to him and said, “Did you and Marzia break up?”  
“I guess so,” Elio said.  
“She finally figured it out, huh?” he said.  
“I don’t know what you mean,” Elio said.  
“Sure,” he said.  
“I like girls, too,” Elio said.  
“Everyone says that at first,” Matteo said.  
“Are you saying that you’re….?” Elio said.  
“Oh, you have to be gay to know that homosexuality exists? I’m not a philistine,” Matteo said. “This will improve your music. All the best artists are gay. I’m jealous, really.”  
“There’s still time. Experiment at university. All the best artists do that,” Elio said.  
“Like Lord Byron,” Matteo said.  
“When it carries on that long, it’s not an experiment,” Elio said. “Anyway, are you still writing bad poetry about Chiara?”  
“Oh, leave me alone about her,” Matteo said.  
“Touched a nerve?” Elio asked.  
Matteo hugged him around the shoulders. “I love you,” he said. It was chaste, friendly, and left Elio feeling nothing but noble sensations, the love for a brother.   
“ I love you, too,” Elio said.  
“You sound miserable, what’s going on?” Matteo said.  
“I can’t speak this way,” Elio said. He was suggesting that they transform, even though it was only twilight.  
“We can’t, not before the blessings. We’ll be cursed! Damned! Turned into Maladanti as the moon turns her benevolent face from us,” Matteo said, tongue in cheekly referring to the lore of their people.  
“Somehow I doubt that,” Elio said.  
“Keep doubting everything, women love that look it gives a man, around the forehead. I guess some men like it, too,” Matteo said.  
“I met my soulmate. And he’s very far away,” Elio said.  
“Don’t tell me about it,” Matteo said.  
“I can’t just….go,” Elio said.  
“Who’s holding you?” Matteo said. “Wherever he is, go.”  
Elio looked over at Kenji Masanori’s car, a black SUV. He had an idea, but it seemed like a farce, ridiculous and doomed. He did it anyway. He tested the latch of the trunk, and it lifted. Elio snuggled himself into the back of the car, covering himself in the roughly woven Mexican blankets and car repair effluvia he found there. His heart caught in his throat when he heard the driver’s door open. He looked up from under the blanket just a little bit.  
“So, this is where I leave you,” Kenji said, standing beside the driver’s door.  
“You say it like its so easy,” Daphne said.  
Elio swallowed a laugh. He now understood the phrase, ‘steel magnolia.’  
“Daphne, it’s been a week. You’re going to forget all about me, once you get back your old life,” Kenji said. “Have you ever seen ‘Speed’? Notice that Keanu Reeves isn’t in the sequel.”  
“He was playing Hamlet in Canada! What’s that have to do with anything?!” Daphne snapped.  
“People bond under intense circumstances, but it isn’t real, Daphne. Or, maybe it is, but a different kind of real, and you have to choose. You can make home your destination no matter what Hells you have to face to get there, like Odysseus, or you can be that guy who only comes alive when he’s around his war buddies, and is happier reliving almost dying that he is with his wife and kids at Disneyland. The familiar isn’t less than, or less real,” Kenji said.  
“Kenji, I don’t think we’re talking about you and me, right now,” Daphne said.  
It did sound, to Elio, an awful lot like Kenji was talking about his father.  
“Daphne, go home. Go back to Richmond,” Kenji said.  
“You can’t tell me what to do!” Daphne said.  
“God, you really commit to a role, don’t you? First Ollie, then me,” he said.  
“I’m over Ollie! Hell, we were never Antony and Cleopatra to begin with. Or Taylor and Burton, for that matter. Don’t get me wrong, he’s sexy, and smart, and so sweet…but something was always missing. I left it too long,” Daphne said  
“Or your parents weren’t as pissed as you thought they would be about you dating a Jew. But, I’m uncharted territory, I see,” Kenji said.   
“What?” Daphne spluttered.  
Elio was just as shocked. Anyone could have seen the sexual tension between those two, but Elio never thought the Hunter would resist the lovely American girl. What was his problem? If Marzia was anything to go by, Elio liked his women as European as they come: remote, smart, liberated, and sensual. Daphne had a wholesome, earthy American effervescence, simple and engagingly sweet. It would perhaps overexcite, then bore, but with Kenji’s soldierly solidity and matter of factness, he’d thought they would complete each other in a rather old fashioned, ‘malt shops and juke boxes’ kind of way. The soldier and his girl, very WWII home front. Her beauty certainly couldn’t be denied, anyway. But, Kenji was trying to reject her any way he knew how.   
“I know a little something about the city where you’re from, okay?” Kenji said. “Isn’t there a street lined with statues of Confederate generals? So, you wanna be different, I get it. Just leave me out of it.”  
Elio threw the blanket full off his head and looked up out the window. He expected to see Daphne shocked, aghast, maybe even crying. Instead, she was looking at Kenji with a fire in her dark eyes, that looked even darker now.  
“If that’s what you think of me, then I never want to see you again,” she said.  
“Daphne, I’m not saying we’ll never see each other again, but..” Kenji began,  
But Daphne cut him off, “Well, I am! And don’t say my name.” She strode decisively back to the Villa. Elio quickly ducked under the covers again. The sky was getting darker. He knew the moon’s power would soon be at its zenith, but he would worry about that later and deal with it somehow. Oliver needed him, he was sure of it. After his convulsion, he saw the sense of not risking another flight from his body, or even reading Oliver’s thoughts and feelings, but wouldn’t being with him in person solve that, remove both the temptation and the necessity? Yes, this was the solution. He just didn’t want to be caught by a Hunter who’d just had bad break up.  
The door slammed, and the car started. They were moving! There was truly no going back, Kenji was unwittingly taking him to Castel Wulfstan. The rolling wheels of the SUV lulled him into a calm state, but he felt cramped and hot. He really hoped he didn’t have to use the bathroom, any time soon. Kenji made a phone call, reporting to someone that he was leaving the Villa and on his way to the Fortress. Other than that, there was silence. Elio knew the scenery so well, he could imagine their surroundings outside the SUV-rolling meadows, small, cheerfully green trees, sunwashed farmhouses made of stone or with cracked while walls, vineyards and groves of olive trees. Soon, it would change as the land inclined upwards, and they would be driving through forested hills, looking over cliffs into gorges, or catching a glimpse of a river rushing over rocks, turning into a waterfall. Alpine shepherds walked their charges along steep paths, and here and there snow still graced the boughs of trees and rocks, though it was spring.   
Kenji stopped the car. Elio heard what was unmistakeably the sound of him crying, and saw Kenji watching a video on his phone of a young woman on a beach. She had the same natural, wholesome, earthy beauty as Daphne, but she was blonde.  
“I can’t wait to hit waves!” she laughed, from the video on his phone.  
“Yeah, I’ll be back at the hotel,” laughed a male voice, probably whoever had taken the video. Elio put together that it was Kenji, but he sounded much happier.  
Elio felt disgusted at himself. He had witnessed something really private. He put the cover even tighter over his head, but in moving he struck some kind of tool and it made a metallic clinking sound as it hit the side of the car.  
“What the fuck?” Kenji said, understandably spooked.   
‘Merde!’ Elio thought, as the door opened. Light flooded his small hiding space, filtered through the blanket. He could feel Kenji looking at him, and just threw the blanket off. The jig, as they say in old films, was up.  
“I can explain,” he said.  
“Its obvious. Your aunt wasn’t keen on the idea of you coming to the Fortress?” Kenji said.  
“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean…here I am?” Elio said.  
“I see. You can ride in the front. Unless you prefer to travel this way?” Kenji said.  
“Are you mad? I was just desperate,” Elio said.  
“Yeah, I see that. Come on, Elio,” Kenji said.  
Elio got in the front seat. Kenji started the car, and they were on their way again.  
“I heard your conversation with Daphne. You don’t really mean those things, do you?” Elio asked.  
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Elio,” Kenji said.  
“It is, because Daphne is my friend. She’s a very kind person,” Elio said. “I thought you liked her.”  
“Good grief…” Kenji muttered.  
“You said some horrible things about her,” Elio said. “She’s not a racist, and she’s not fake, and she’s not using anyone.”  
“How do you know? We all met last week! You say Oliver is your soulmate, and she says…..Look, it doesn’t matter. Its been a week. Seven days,” Kenji said.  
“ ‘How much does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say, “for ever”?” Elio said.  
“Pablo Neruda. Very nice. Are you homeschooled?” Kenji said.  
“I study independently, yes, you could say that. But, I’m eighteen now,” Elio said.  
“I did that too, when I first turned eighteen. Reminded everyone every few hours, basically,” Kenji said.  
“I’m not trying to assert my manhood, or something. That would be awkward for all involved. I don’t need to do that,” Elio said.  
“Well, good for you,” Kenji said. He sighed. “It’s complicated.”  
“Because of your wife,” Elio said. “I saw you looking at a video I will assume was taken on your honeymoon. Somewhere tropical with big waves…Hawaii? Bali? Thailand?”  
“All good guesses,” Kenji said.  
“That’s why you’re trying to put Daphne off. If you’re married, maybe you shouldn’t be flirting around with girls you meet on assignment,” Elio said.  
“If Kelly were still alive, I wouldn’t be,” Kenji said.  
Elio was shocked and embarrassed. He had no idea, of course.   
“I wish she was still alive. I wish no one ever died,” Elio said.  
“Well, we wouldn’t want that. Admittedly, humanity is better off without some people. Tyrants, murderers, cult leaders, child abusers….” Kenji said.  
“Yes, but what about good people?” Elio said.  
“I don’t know,” Kenji said. “I really don’t. You’re right-it hurts when good people die. I didn’t know what I was doing with Daphne until she called me on it. She reminded me of Kelly, maybe. But she’s a great person in her own way. She’s coming off this thing with Oliver, so she’s probably pretty mixed up, too.”  
“I don’t think so. She wants to find her person, and she said she knew Oliver wasn’t her person. I guess that makes since, since he’s my person. I mean, my soulmate,” Elio said.  
“I can’t drive like this,” Kenji said.   
“I’m just saying, all this-me meeting Oliver, you and Daphne meeting. It was destiny,” Elio said.  
“Destiny is random,” Kenji said.   
As they drove, the sky darkened and the moon brightened, shedding its phantasmagoric light on the mountains, making them silhouettes.   
“Are you okay? Its getting later,” Kenji said, the first thing he had said in hours, at that point.  
“I’ll be fine. Transforming is a pleasure for us. We don’t experience the same dramatic effects as the Maladanti. The legends say that it is because God has blessed us, while the Maladanti are forsaken,” Elio said.  
“Yeah, well, most religions say their followers God’s favorite kid, and those who oppose him are the ‘other’. I mean, look at the Middle East, right?” Kenji said.   
“Yes, there is much to look at, there,” Elio said dryly, but it was clear he didn’t particularly want to talk about the Middle East.   
“What do you believe?” Kenji said.  
“People keep asking me that,” Elio said.  
“Life’s hard when you don’t believe in anything,” Kenji said.  
“I believe in me,” Elio said. “When I try very hard to be present, I am here, and I believe that I can be present and be here.”  
Kenji said nothing about this espousal of personal philosophy. The castle came into view, and Kenji drove along a bridge that, even in the darkness Elio could see was laid over a great chasm between cliffs. To fall would be fatal. They drove underground into a kind of cavernous garage space, and then took a rickety elevator into the castle after leaving the car. Elio was tired. Kenji opened the door, and they were in a castle corridor, stone walls and an arched ceiling. It was like something from a Gothic novel.  
The knowledge that Oliver was here struck him fiercely. He wanted to run to him, but of course didn’t know the direction and had to follow Kenji.  
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?” Elio said.  
“You’re here now,” he said.  
He was, indeed, here now.

Oliver  
The crystals stilled Oliver’s pain and discomfort, but Gristwood wanted to be sure, absolutely sure. Oliver was taken to her lab. He was tired of this already. How different it was to walking in the crisp, cool shadows of the forest, being treated as an invalid or a specimen.   
Specimen. Willem’s word. But he was wrong. Nzinga and Diana only wanted to help him, he wasn’t under study like a cell beneath a glass. He could trust them. Still, he wished none of this was necessary. Once again, he was asked to take off his slippers, lay down, stay calm, breathe, and was fitted with tabs connected to wires connected to machines connected to screens, and Diana and her team made small grimaces and whispered comments that he tried clandestinely to decipher like a child trying to tell if their parents are displeased with him. What were they looking at? His blood pressure, his heart, his breathing, his brain? All of it? No one would tell him. He felt impatient, but not with them as much as himself, his own body. For twenty-four years, he had thought he was the God in this temple. His thoughts moved his limbs, decided when to eat, when to sleep. That illusion of control was eroding with each test, each medicine and the drowsy placidity they produced. He was here, but not in control.  
‘Come to me,’ Willem whispered. As loath as Oliver was to become a Maladante in earnest, as Dan and Jen had done, he felt a burst of rebellion at the doctors, the tests, and this body that he didn’t know anymore. He let go. Willem was calling him, and it was a beacon in space. The pain, heat, and labor of breathing left him. He saw the stars. Not the proverbial ‘light at the end of the tunnel’, but the night itself, the navy-blue sky and the dizzying stars, the brooding black mountains and felt the thin, fresh, snow laden air without having to breathe it. Where was Willem? He had said, ‘Come with him?’ but where was he?  
Oliver didn’t really care. He didn’t need anyone, for the first time in his life. ‘Once outside of nature’, as Yeats had written. But, no! He was closer to nature than he could ever be, on a mere hike. The moon and stars shed their light on him, in him, through him, and without eyes he saw them for the first time, their brightness, their heat, gone was the fallacy that the sun was brighter, and that they were lesser lights. How they lit the dark! It was never truly dark, if even one star could be found in the sky, and even that lone beacon would be truly brilliant. His poor body. Its eyes were only organs and could never see like this.  
He wondered about his body. From afar he saw the exam room, saw a furry thing overturning tables, gnashing at any human who came near, and the humans backing up from it in fear. Someone hit a button on a wall, and an alarm began to sound. They were all in fear, it was clear by how they moved, both the animal, and the men.

Elio  
“What does that mean?” Elio asked Kenji, as the alarm began to sound in the corridor.  
“Nothing good,” Kenji said, and pulled Elio into an empty room.   
“Stay here,” Kenji said, and shut the door on him, jogging hurriedly down the hall.  
‘Was this some kind of drill?’ Elio wondered, but he knew the answer to that. It felt all too real.


	17. Chapter 17

“The world is so loud/ keep falling/ I’ll find you…”  
“Snowflake,” Kate Bush

Somehow, Elio knew that this situation, and the hue and cry of the ringing alarm, had something to do with Oliver. When he closed his eyes, he saw, as if in a dream, a white room, bright lights, and people in white lab coats. He was angry at them. No, afraid. He was afraid, and didn’t want to hurt them but also didn’t want so many people so close. They were sweaty, and had the acrid stink of fear dripping beneath their clothes. He wanted to get away but they blocked his way, and anyway he didn’t know where he would go if he could get free. This must be Oliver’s thoughts and feelings, but where was he? He had no one to ask, since Kenji had run towards danger.  
Well, if he could see what Oliver was thinking now, Elio figured, he must be able to see his memories, if he crawled far enough through the tunnel of his thoughts. Elio did so, and he saw…..glaciers. Sheets of bluish ice floating on gray waters, and he was all alone breathing thin air. A ship was approaching. The way people know things they had not been told in dreams, Elio knew that he was stranded, stalled in pursuit.  
‘His favorite book really is Frankenstein!’ Elio marveled. This was a scene from the book, the way Oliver had imagined it in the theater of his mind. Intriguing, but Elio had to file past it to find Oliver’s memory of the way to the white room. He saw Daphne, many memories of Daphne, smiling cajolingly, too brightly, too tightly, trying to convince him to have fun, and felt Oliver’s guilt. He saw two kids in their teens with bright optimistic smiles who must be his little brother and sister, Abby and Jake. He saw a snowy mountain, and saw himself, but really Oliver, in the company of a kind, patient woman who was urging him to breathe through pain. All around them was a forest, and it smelled fresh and sweet. He was in a wheelchair, next. This was the memory he needed! The hallway, the elevator, the room number….When Elio pulled back to his own thoughts, his head hurt a little bit, and he felt a little dizzy, but that didn’t stop him from dashing off to find Oliver. He took the route Oliver’s memories led him down, because they were now his, too. The time spent in the elevator was wasted time, an eternity that lasted a minute, a purgatory that lasted the span of just a few breaths. He emerged on a floor that looked vastly different than the rest of the castle, that looked like a hospital on an American television drama.  
He was sharply delighted to see Kenji Masanori, the only person he knew, the only person sympathetic to him. He was standing sternly in front of a large glass observation window.  
“Kenji!” Elio said.  
“Elio! I told you to stay put!” he said.  
“Is he in there?” Elio said.  
“You can’t go in there, Elio,” Kenji said.  
“I have to! He needs me! What are they doing to him?” Elio said.  
Through the glass, Elio could see Oliver, transformed, the long, furry, wolf like body. He had never seen a Maladanti before, up close, only felt their presence in his mind, and heard their malevolence spoken of. Oliver didn't look sinister in any way. Elio couldn't believe that it was really him, in there. When they walked through the streets of the village together, Oliver had seemed a little weary and cynical, but with a good nature and a few remaining hopes beneath it. Desire had coursed between them, but not merely lust-they both knew they had met the friend they had been waiting for, the personality whose company satisfied and excited them beyond all others, that they would compare everyone else to.  
Now, with Oliver able to take this form, they could truly share everything. He was more desperate than ever to be by his side, and even tugged at the latch of the door.  
"You can't get in," Kenji said.  
"Please?" Elio said.  
He put his hand on Elio's shoulder, as they watched the tall, blonde female doctor give Oliver an injection which subdued him. Kenji's hand was warm and steadying on Elio's shoulder. He wished it was his father's hand. Not for the first time he wondered how it had been so easy for his parents to commit him to Zelenia's care. Had his illness and his nature complicated their lives, so that giving him up was the only way to restore any semblance of order.  
"Hey, I know it looks rough, but it’s for his protection, and so they can care for him. No one here wants to hurt him," Kenji said.  
He had been so kind. Elio didn't know what to say that could meet the length of his kindness. Oliver became human once more, lying nude and senseless on the floor. Doctors lifted him to an examination bed.  
"What happened?" Elio said.  
"It’s different for everybody," Kenji said.  
The doctor Elio had seen in Oliver's memory emerged from the room.  
"Are you Oliver's doctor?" Elio asked.  
"You must be Elio Visconti!" She said, putting in a brittle cheerfulness although he had already seen the shadows in her eyes.  
"Elio Perlman. My mother's a Visconti," he said. Everyone had been doing that since Zelenia took him in.  
"Oliver talks about you all the time," she said. She took her Latex gloves off, threw them away in a dispenser on the wall, and introduced herself as Dr. Nzinga Wheatley.  
"Oliver transformed," Elio said, and he despised his own quant childish voice, and his words, pointing out the obvious like a child at a zoo.  
"Yes," Dr. Wheatley said. "We began treating him at once with a drug protocol that, in some cases, suppresses the virus's expression. But, every case advances at its own rate. This might be the last time Oliver ever transforms, and from here on he'll be stabilized, or the disease will progress at this pace and...."  
"And he won't be a person anymore. Not really," Elio said.  
"There are myriad possibilities, but limited options. We're going to try everything we've got," Nzinga said. "But this adds a new dimension to things. We need to know why the virus is progressing so rapidly in his case."  
"Why are you telling me all this?" Elio asked.  
"I think he'd want you to know," Nzinga said.  
Elio exhaled. No one was barring him from Oliver, and Oliver hadn't forgotten him. But, he was still sick. The doctor has been honest, and his condition sounded not hopeless but unpredictable.  
"Aren't you feeling any....discomfort?" She asked.  
"Oh, the moon? I'll be okay," he said. He had a headache, now that he thought about it, but it was nothing, really.  
"He's bluffing," Kenji said, to Nzinga, and to Elio, "C'mere."  
He framed Elio's face with his hands, his palms inches from Elio's ears. Elio felt a fuzzy warmth emanating from Kenji's hands. He felt relaxed and grounded in one spot, calm. After a few minutes, he realized his pain was gone.  
"What was that?" Elio said.  
"Reiki. It means 'divine energy'. It’s a form of healing," Kenji said.  
"But I thought you were a Hunter," Elio said.  
"We have a multifaceted skill set," Kenji quipped. "Feel better?"  
"Yeah....but sleepy," Elio said.  
"That's normal," Kenji said. "Can I be honest?"  
"I trust you," Elio said.  
"You can only be there for Oliver if you're on your feet, alert, rested, present. Get some rest," Kenji said.  
"Kelly was...sick?" Elio said.  
"Yeah," Kenji said.  
"I'm sorry," Elio said.  
"I know how you feel," Kenji said. He lowered his hands, and put an arm around Elio's shoulder. He was so grateful for Kenji's kindness. If only he'd been around when Elio was 13. 'To what purpose? Just to hang around and make you feel better? Perlman, grow up!' Elio chided himself.  
Kenji led him to a room to rest for a while, and Elio thought about his home. At the Villa Visconti, Zelenia was blessing the wine, bread, and salt, singing the praises of the goddess Diana. After the huge meal prepared by Mafalda and her helpers, Benandante girls from the village who were her apprentices in healing arts, the guests would go outside, to the grove beyond the orchards. The stone statues of goddesses scattered across the property led the way. Holding hands in a circle, the Benandante prayed to Diana, the goddess of the moon and of wild things. Then, they transformed, reuniting with their wolf selves, peacefully scouring the woods. Elio's skin was screaming to receive the soft, warm moonlight, but he felt better after the Reiki.  
"Take care of yourself, Elio," he said, as Elio settled into bed.  
"I'm sorry I was so hard on you," Elio said. "About Daphne."  
Kenji said nothing, but his expressive eyes told Elio they were even-Stevens on the matter of Daphne. It was okay. Everything felt settled, somehow. He was so tired he felt safe.  
He woke up when he felt someone running their fingertips along his neck and stroking his neck. It felt good, made him feel loved and adored but also aroused in an unhurried morning way.  
He knew exactly who this was. But, it couldn't be...yet, this wasn't a dream.  
Elio opened his eyes.  
"Oliver," he said.  
Oliver smiled. His beauty was enhanced by moonrise, his skin more bronzed, his hair copper blonde and healthier, brighter, his eyes more intensely blue. His skin emitted an overcharged aura of health. He was moonkissed now, but they weren't the same, as Marzia kept reminding him. As if that mattered! His voice, his touch, the sight of him! Elio was galvanized with love, and wanted to hold him, to be as close as possible to him, to drink him, consume him, and yet protect him from anyone else's hands.  
"What are you doing here, Elio?" Oliver said.  
"I had to see you again. Unless, that’s not what you want?" Elio said.  
He'd utterly miscalculated this thing, Oliver was about to tell him to get lost..  
Instead, Oliver smiled bemusedly, as if Elio had said something adorably ridiculous.  
"I wanted it. A Hell of a lot more than I should," He said.  
"What does that mean?" Elio said.  
"It means I failed. I tried to get better, for you. So I could come back to you," Oliver said.  
"I'm here," Elio said. "What happens now?"  
"More drugs," Oliver said. "Just different ones. Every day, for the rest of my life, so I won't become....an animal. Its different for you. "  
Elio touched Oliver's hands, stroked his hairy hands and wrists. He had never known a vargulf, before, the general word for those who were bitten. Once human, after being bitten they were driven by hunger, and had little choice but to transform and sate themselves on human blood.  
There were legends about them as there were about Benandanti and Malandanti: that they were the souls of the unblessed dead, led by the demon king Herlichus or the goddess Satia, led in a chaotic train through the countryside. In truth they were driven by hunger, more mindless with every moon.  
But Elio couldn't associate those stories with his lover.  
"It doesn't have to be hopeless. It’s not hopeless for you. The medicine will help, and you'll still be you. You'll have a full life. You can even go home, again," Elio said.  
"No, I can't go home. What if I hurt Abbey, or Jake?" He said.  
"I saw them, in your memory! Your brother and sister. They are so beautiful to you. You see them with such light gracing their shoulders, like saints in a painting," Elio said, all the truth tumbling out of him. He just couldn’t help it. In Oliver's presence there was no impetus to pretend.  
“You saw Jake and Abbey? What else did you see?” Oliver said.  
“I saw you. I saw everything you love,” Elio said, and it was true. He’d felt the warm, golden glow of Oliver’s soul, his goodness, and he loved him even more.  
“You won’t hurt them. They love you, and you love them,” Elio said.  
Oliver moved from the chair beside Elio’s bed to the spot on the bed beside him, and drew Elio into his arms. Elio gladly settled in against his chest.  
“I’m not as close with them as I should be. We call, and email, and keep up on social media and everything. But I was so afraid the tensions between me and our parents would ruin things for them. So, I stayed away, really except for holidays,” Oliver said.  
“I’m sure that they still know that you care, and would want to see you no matter what,” Elio said.  
Oliver kissed his forehead, and lovingly nuzzled his nose.  
“You’re perfect,” Oliver said.  
“Trust me, I’m not,” Elio said. “My aunt, Zelenia, is going to kill me when she realizes I’m gone.”  
“You’re eighteen,” Oliver said reassuringly. “She knows you have a life of your own.”  
“Yes, but still. I hate lying to her or putting her in a difficult spot. She and Mafalda saved my life. They could help you too! Our people are healers. Maybe we could help you,” Elio said.  
“Elio, I don’t want you getting your hopes up, or making promises for them. Let’s take it one minute at a time,” Oliver said.  
One minute at a time…every second was precious and promising. Elio was just so happy to be with him, and yet this happiness was just too much, it was so complete and acute it was more like fear. He wanted to tell Oliver everything he felt, but found the best way to express it instead was to kiss him. He pressed his lips to Oliver’s, and was Oliver’s mouth yielded to his. When his tongue entered Eli’s mouth he felt caught off guard, even though they had made love this felt shockingly intimate. Elio went with it and reveled in it. Oliver’s hands were all over him, and Elio relished the warmth of his touch.  
“Elio….” Oliver moaned against his Elio’s neck, as he kissed him there, a hot, wet trail from Elio’s ear to his collarbone, stretching the collar of Elio’s sweatshirt out of the way to kiss yet more ivory skin. Elio felt nearly overwhelmed not just with Oliver’s touch but by the love behind his touch. He could feel it everywhere his lips touched. Every inch of Elio’s skin left behind by Oliver’s hands as he sought a new place to caress felt marked by love.  
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” Elio said.  
“I left you, Elio. It’s my fault. But I can make this better,” Oliver said.  
Elio wanted to tell Oliver that it wasn’t his fault that Willem bit him, but Oliver tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt, and Elio lifted his arms to let him pull it off. He was exposed to his lover, his soft belly, and hairless chest, his visible ribs and clavicle. He didn’t loathe his body, but he didn’t like being so skinny and frail looking. People treated him like he was delicate and needed protecting. His appearance matched all they had heard of him, of his illness and his “fits”. He didn’t want Oliver to see him like that, but he needed him to know that he understood.  
“You didn’t want to leave me, I know that,” Elio said. “Oliver, I have to tell you something.”  
He looked into Oliver’s eyes, and saw desire there. Elio’s body answered it, and the chord hummed between them.  
Oliver stroked his back lovingly and said, “Sure. What is it?”  
“When I was thirteen, we realized I was a Benandante. I had these headaches, and I had to miss a lot of school. Then, I had a seizure. It was scary for my parents-all the doctors, and the tests, and they couldn’t pinpoint the cause of any of it. But, the worst part of it all, was the nightmares. I saw the worst things that could happen to my family, my friends. Terrible things. They told me that I could make sure it didn’t happen, and end it all…” Elio said.  
“End it all, how?” Oliver said.  
Elio looked at him. Moonlight lit the room, and Oliver looked into Elio’s eyes and he understood.  
“Babe….” He whispered in empathetic dismay.  
“I almost did it. I stopped myself. But I was so afraid all the time, and I couldn’t trust what was real and what was an awful dream. All I knew was what they had shown me, the things that could happen to my parents, and I felt like a burden and a danger to them,” Elio said. “I know how they can make you do things, things that aren’t you.”  
Oliver held him close, and lovingly stroked his shoulders and back, kissed his hair, his neck, touching him as much as possible in every way. Elio felt safe and grounded by Oliver’s warm, strong body, and his hands, oh, how he loved his hands. He had wanted someone or something to cling to as reality dissolved and the pressure of his fear mounted, poisoning every day, but he was glad that he had found Oliver now that the danger had passed. He could now reassure him. That whole dark episode was worth it, now, that he could give it to Oliver, and help him understand that his nightmares were not truly his mind.  
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Oliver murmured. “I’m so, so sorry, Elio…”  
“I’m not,” Elio said. “Not anymore. Everything that happened to me led me to you.”  
“Same,” Oliver said, and Elio had to see his face, had to see the warm smile matching all the love in his voice. All the dreams, thoughts, and feelings they had shared flooded back to him. This was different than having his mind invaded-Elio loved this spiritual nudity, having his soul seen by his beloved.  
“Do the doctors know you’re here?” Elio asked.  
Oliver put a finger to his mouth as if hushing him. This was a secret, more stolen time. But, it was their time.  
“The moon doesn’t affect you the same way it affects me, does it?” Oliver asked. “You don’t have to transform?”  
“I want to, so bad. I do,” Elio said, and realized it was true, and all his desires were crashing together, the desire to be close to Oliver in soul, in body, and his lust and love for the moonlight energy to penetrate and fill him, to change him. He was bracing himself against it, which only made the desire more pressing. “But, I needed to see you.”  
“Promise me you’ll never choose me over what you need again. Promise?” Oliver said.  
“No promises. This is a Latin country. Love is the national sport. Or passtime. We do insane things for love-it’s the national character,” Elio said. “Expect big gestures and noble sacrifices, from now on.”  
“I mean it, Elio,” Oliver said. “Take care of yourself.”  
“Okay-I’ll try to tone it down,” Elio said.  
They looked at each other and basked in their happiness.  
“It’s okay. Some people choose not to transform, but to let the moon take them in other ways,” Elio said.  
“What other ways?” Oliver asked.  
“To surrender,” Elio said.  
“Surrender to…?” Oliver asked.  
“To this,” Elio said, and slowly, sensually ran his fingertip along Oliver’s forearm, slowly sailing his finger along the length of the prominent vein beneath his skin. As he did so, he watched Oliver’s breathing become labored, watched his eyes fill with the shock of pleasure and then savor it, watched his back arch slightly. Elio felt it too, as well as the thrill of giving Oliver such pleasure. He peppered his neck with soft kisses, and then slid his hand beneath Oliver’s tshirt. Oliver’s moans thrilled him, rang through him.  
“So, instead of becoming a werewolf, you fuck all night? I like that option. You’re lucky,” Oliver said.  
“I’d say you’re the lucky one,” Elio said.  
Oliver smiled. Elio wanted this, and this wasn’t their first time, but he was still nervous. It wasn’t the anxiety he had known in the past, but more like overexcitement, an excess of joy that needed to be expressed somehow.  
For the first time in a long time, Elio was without the burden of what had happened when he was thirteen. It was funny how everyone had known, but it still felt like a secret. Now, he no longer felt the weight of that shame and guilt. They undressed. Elio took off his jeans and underwear, but not his socks, which Oliver found funny. He convinced him to take off his socks as Elio earnestly hushed him, scared that his hushed laughter would still be heard by a concerned doctor. Oliver took off his tshirt and pajama pants, indifferent items of clothing provided by the Hunters. He covered them both up with the covers, and they settled on Elio’s nude form. The sheet caressed his bare ass, and the blanket lay atop the tip of his cock. He was hard, and felt touched by the blankets and the air, even the room’s chilliness wasn’t unpleasant because it was a nice contrast to the heat beneath his skin.  
Oliver sought his body, pulled him close, and they fell to breathlessly kissing. Elio ran his hands up and down Oliver’s hairy chest, and tugged the curly bronzed auburn hair there. Oliver moaned and kissed him harder. Elio didn’t know why he felt shy now, but he did feel hesitant as he put his hand to Oliver’s cock. So warm, so firm, so hard, so alive in his hands. He felt possessive of this part of Oliver. It belonged to him. He looked beneath the covers, and saw it in his hand, and saw his own cock, lying against his stomach, slightly curved. It was longer, but thinner. He wondered if it pleased Oliver, if he felt the same way about his cock that Elio did about his. The hair of their legs rubbed as their legs shifted, and their bellies touched. Oliver brought their cocks together in his hand, and stroked them both. The sensations Elio had felt all over his body faded in the face of this intense pleasure, and he felt it in his lower body, his stomach, and up and down his back as Oliver stroked him. He kissed him to breathe, swallowing air from his mouth and passing it back again until they both had to break away and breathe something besides each other.  
Oliver kissed his stomach, and Elio felt the building pressure in his lower body that heralded either an impending orgasm or transformation. He wanted neither. He wanted their time to last as long as possible. He inhaled deeply, then the air was forced from him in a sudden exhale as Oliver explored him hungrily with his mouth, nosing at his balls, licking his perineum and flicking his anus before turning his attention to his shaft. He grasped Elio’s cock with a loose palm, and fitted his lips over the tip.  
Elio closed his eyes, and surrendered. It was only a shadow of what he wanted, but still felt like being hit by a wave and pulled deeper into the ocean, from its edge.  
“Oliver,” Elio cried, over and over again, reveling in his name. He wanted to stop it, but he couldn’t . He came, and didn’t think to pull out. It felt too good to feel Oliver’s mouth a wet cave around him as he released. All the fear of the last five years, all his lingering nightmares, and all the loneliness and desire of the days they had been separated. And all the love. He felt it all, light and dark, and Oliver took it all. The ecstasy passed into the satiated peace, like night bleeding into dawn. He opened his eyes and looked down at Oliver.  
“Sorry,” Elio said.  
“Don’t apologize,” Oliver said, smiling as if this act had brought him peace, too. He couldn’t believe that Oliver had swallowed him. He felt bashful, he wanted to hide. He felt so close to Oliver, and yet he wanted to hide under the covers. For some reason, he wanted to cry. Now that he had surrendered, he couldn’t stop. He cried, and Oliver rushed to hold him once more. They kissed, and Elio’s tears fell to his lips. Oliver took these, too, his tears, he drank them as they kissed. He was hard, and his cock jutted against Elio’s stomach. He had never admitted to himself just how badly he wanted this. He hadn’t been able to think of it, consumed as these years had been with his transformation.  
Oliver said his name, as if asking for something. Elio sucked two of Oliver’s fingers. When they were wet enough, Oliver began to prod gently at the door of his body.  
“I can’t believe this is really happening,” Oliver said. “Let go, Elio. It’s okay, let go.”  
Elio tried to do so. Oliver placed a steadying hand on his belly, as Oliver’s wet fingers attempted to delve into him. His muscles rebelled, the tight ring of muscle closing to Oliver’s fingertips at first.  
He began to lick him there, and with a hunger and insistence that felt more pronounced than before. Elio tried to move with Oliver’s tongue, but it lathed him in eager, thrashing swipes, and the sensations it inspired in him were wild flares of sensation. He moaned and felt pleasure in his throat from the echo of his moans.  
“You showed me your dreams, and poetry. We were never apart, were we? You never left me. I was never alone,” Elio said, as Olive fingered him, opening him patiently as they looked into each other’s eyes, saying so many things silently and sharing every breath that tumbled into a moan or a sigh.  
Oliver grasped his thigh. Elio put his hand over Oliver’s. Oliver positioned his cock at the door of Elio’s body. He entered him. Elio wrapped his arms around Oliver’s neck, and kissed him deeply. He wrapped his legs around Oliver as he got used to the full feeling, the sting of his muscles opening and accommodating Oliver’s cock.  
Time stretched and became timeless, moved in wide arcs rather than a march of minutes. He felt pain, and pleasure. Not all of his pleasure bloomed from within him. He had a hyperawareness of their mingling sweat, clashing body hair, and skin, of the covers, of the sensations in his hands and at the top of his head. Elio felt like a struck bell singing from a tower. The heat and sweat of this was like nothing else. He could feel the distant moonlight blessing them. Oliver came, and the hot fluid graced the interior of Elio’s body. He loved the heat of it, and the way it made it easier for him to accept Oliver’s cock, which was still hard. Oliver cried out, the undulations of his hips driven by this crisis of sensation, and breathlessly asked, “What’s wrong with me?” as rather than growing soft, his knot formed within Elio, holding them together.  
“Nothing’s wrong,” Elio said, and lovingly touched his sweaty face. He kissed his face everywhere he could, his cheek, his forehead, his nose, his lips. Oliver continued to move within him. Elio had some idea that this could happen. He’d heard boys joke about it, at any rate. Oliver shuddered, and Elio felt his expanded flesh nudge his prostate. Oliver groaned raggedly, unprepared for this pleasure.  
“Your body has changed, my love,” Elio said. “That’s all.”  
He couldn’t respond with anything resembling speech. Elio, too, had to close his eyes against so much feeling. They were knotted, their bonding was complete, physically. There was still so much of each other’s souls to penetrate. Oliver found himself to be held within Elio by this new facet of his transformation, and struggled for the sheer sensation of rebelling flesh, each time feeling his knot held tight by Elio’s body. Elio held him close through his orgasms, which shook both of them. Finally, he grew slack, and Elio could tell that the hour had changed from true night to dark morning as they made love.  
“I should have asked the doctors how this would impact my sex life. Just skipped my mind,” Oliver said, between deep breaths.  
“It’s called knotting,” Elio said.  
“It feels good, but renders quickies a thing of the past,” Oliver said.  
“We don’t do quickies in Italy,” Elio said.  
“If you’re going to milk this Italian lover thing…..” Oliver said.  
“Oh, so you didn’t come to Italy to find a lover?” Elio asked.  
“I didn’t know why I came, really,” Oliver said.  
“I guess it was destiny,” Elio said. “The gravity of destiny.”  
“Does this knotting thing happen every time?” Oliver said.  
“I don’t know. It hasn’t happened to me, yet” Elio said.  
Oliver kissed him. “It will,” Oliver reassured him. “Its…intense. Almost too much. Are you okay?”  
Elio didn’t want to talk about it. He liked the stinging sensation that Oliver had left deep within him, and didn’t want to admit this. It was different with Marzia. It was fun, it was two friends showing their love for each other. This was a fire always smoldering within both he and Oliver, it would consume him from the inside out if he let it. It was too real to talk about even with Oliver. Complete surrender was a pyre. He found himself resisting in small ways. The gravity of destiny…those were his words…but still, he felt like pulling away, and holding on all the same time. What was he afraid of?  
“I’m okay,” Elio said. After a pause, he added, “Oliver…..”  
“Yeah?” Oliver asked.  
“Don’t leave me,” he said softly, letting his words hang in the dark.  
“Never again,” he promised.  
Elio believed him completely. The hesitance he had felt before was gone, and a stone over his heart was rolled away now. They kissed. Oliver lay beneath him, his legs around Elio’s waist. He entered him, and they moved together, slowly. He had found his fear-he was afraid to love Oliver completely and then be left alone. It could happen to anybody. He’d felt alone for so long even though he loved his aunt, and Mafalda, and his friends. Still, he’d felt alone, and then came Oliver, and he was so afraid that he would leave him and cut the thread that bound them. Oliver murmured as they kissed that he would never leave him. Elio entered him, and he could feel Oliver’s joy. This, above all other pleasures, fulfilled him. Elio loved how he shook with joy.  
He felt it in his lower back, first, then his entire lower body. His orgasm was dry, he looked into Oliver’s eyes and they both knew. Deep inside his lover, his body changed, and Oliver held him. Elio came twice more, and he felt tossed about by his body, battered by heat and pleasure. This hadn’t happened to him with Marzia. This was one of those times he keenly felt that he wasn’t human. But, he wasn’t alone. Finally, on the third orgasm, he ejaculated, and softened, and the relief overpowered him as the pleasure had. Oliver’s semen was sticky on both their hands, they had stroked him into ecstasy.  
He was drowsy and falling asleep when Oliver bit him. He bled into Oliver’s mouth, and he feasted from his neck.  
He pulled back, moaning, the blood spilling over his lips. Elio kissed him.  
Elio held out his hand, looking at the nails that had become thick, pearlescent talons. He cut Oliver’s shoulder, opened the wound he had made weeks before, at the palazzo when he transformed, opened the scar and drank. They kissed, tasting each other.  
They fell asleep, feeling whole.


	18. Chapter 18

Oliver woke up, and the first thing he saw was the fresh drops of blood on the pillow.  
Alarmed, he said, "Elio?"  
A fresh drops of blood hit the pillow, a crimson pearl bursting on the pillowcase and soaking into it.  
Elio moaned, and trembled in Willem's arms, his head thrown back, ecstacy written across his face, his eye closed. Willem held Elio close, and for a few seconds that seemed to last much longer Oliver wasn't afraid, but seduced by the sight of their naked bodies. The sound of Willem drinking, the glimpse of the wound on Elio's neck and the pearlescent teeth keeping the wound open, Elio's moans of captive pleasure, and his hard cock, so urgently pink, rubbing against Willem's stomach. Willem was hard too, but satisfied by the blood alone. How his back arched, and his ass tensed, from the pleasure of drinking Elio.  
Oliver was intoxicated by the sound, sight, and the metallic smell of blood. He wanted to drink from Elio as he had the night before. Elio, nude and bleeding…..  
Then he remembered that Willem shouldn't be here, and that Elio was in danger.  
"He's ambrosial, " Willem marvelled, and Elio's blood was like wine on his lips, on his teeth. "Would that there was an orchard of Elios!"  
"Don't hurt him," Oliver said.  
"He loves it. Look at him. Thank you for sharing him with me. He's the first of many we'll share," Willem said.  
Elio lay on Willem's chest, as if they were lovers.  
"This is just a dream," Oliver said.  
"Yes….but he's still dying. Look. Dream or not, you won't forget it," Willem said.  
It was true. Elio's cock was hard against his stomach, and he writhed yearningly for Willem to return to him, to drink from him, and his features were strained with futile lust. But the blood was flowing from his neck, turning the pillow crimson red, a darker red that was nearly purple, and a sickly brown. Oliver sweat with horror, a sadness of immeasurable depths that left him frozen and voiceless, turned to salt like Lot's wife as her city burned.  
"They all die that way," Willem said. "You won't be able to stop yourself. Why torture yourself? Why endanger him?"  
Oliver was so afraid, he wanted to weep. He hadn't asked for any of this. He wished he had been braver, and done a million things differently. Now, this was his life.  
"Oliver," Elio said. Not the dying Elio before him, Elio outside, Elio beside him, he had to return to him. He had to wake up.  
Elio shook him, and Oliver opened his eyes.  
"Willem. Was he in your dream?" Oliver asked frantically.  
"No," Elio said.  
"But we share our dreams, don't we?" Oliver said.  
"It's different for the two of you. He's your Master," Elio said.  
Oliver was angered by this word. "He's not my master. He's the master of nothing. He's a bully. I know bullies. They get in your head and feel powerful because they've made someone miserable, insecure, whatever. They live to penetrate others, however they can," Oliver said.  
Elio stroked his shoulders lovingly, and said, "Calm down. Nightmares stay with you if you don't talk about what happened in them. Tell me, and we can sort it out and put it away," Elio said. He opened the mini fridge in a corner of the room and handed Oliver a mineral water. Oliver drank it too fast, needing the distraction and comfort of doing something, anything, that felt tangible, banal, real. It burned his throat. He spluttered, and felt inordinate anger at the plastic bottle. He wanted to throw it at the wall, but that would be childish.  
He told Elio everything.  
"He's wrong," Elio said, when Oliver was done. "You drank from me, but you stopped. You wouldn't hurt me. The medication they give you here makes sure you're not some ravening beast from a medieval wood cut."  
"We're all something out of a medieval wood cut, but it's nice to have a handle on the ravening thing, admittedly," Oliver said.  
Elio laughed, but said, "You always do that:make a joke about things you don't like," Elio said.  
"Yeah, it's easier than changing them, or getting upset," Oliver said. He sighed, and said, "Elio, I saw you die. I'm afraid to touch you. No, I'm ashamed. What can I say? He's not wrong. Part of me….wants that. And I liked watching him do it to you. And I did nothing to stop him. What if I lose myself in drinking from you?"  
"Your desires are different from mine, yes," Elio said. "But you have the power to choose the life you want, Oliver."  
This comforted him so immediately that he had no time to come up with a pessimistic retort. Elio touched his face, and looked into his eyes. Never had Oliver been so comfortable looking into anyone's eyes. Elio's eyes were so arresting, such a jewel like green. Brazilian emeralds, dark with glints of forest green when the light struck them. He looked into his eyes, and welcomed his touch, and eventually felt soothed and loved.  
They showered together in the half bath behind a door on the left wall of the room. Oliver smiled as Elio soaped his hair with body wash. The hot water felt so good on the top of his head, washing it all off. It was like it was washing away his dream. They kissed under the water, and as Oliver touched Elio's soft, wet skin, he felt a sliver of fear. What if he hurt him, somehow, someday?  
Dr. Wheatley collected him for tests.  
"This could take a while," Oliver said.  
"Can I come with you?" Elio asked.  
Oliver looked to Nzinga.  
"I'm sorry, Elio, but it would be against policy for you to see our research, since you're not staff," she said.  
"Research?" He said.  
Nzinga looked apologetic, knowing the word implied that Oliver was some kind of specimen.  
"Some of the data that we're collecting about Oliver's condition will help us get a clearer picture of what lycanthropy's progression looks like, and what treatments are effective. Cryptozoological medicine isn't a terribly old field of medicine, and we learn more with each patient. Your people have been invaluable partners to us, Elio-the Benandanti have an incredible history, and healing is, I understand, a huge emphasis in your culture," she said.  
"Yes, but it often led to accusations of witch craft. Sharing who we are with the world hasn't been easy," Elio said.  
"People are uncomfortable around those who are different from them," Nzinga said. "There's no denying that. Many ethnic groups throughout history have faced slander and ostracism for their appearance or their culture. But it's a fallacy that people are any different because they seem different. Maybe xenophobia is an outmoded evolutionary instinct, dating back to the time when early man did share the earth with other species of thinking ape. But, eventually, somehow, we survived them all. There is no longer any threat to our species but our own capacity to hate each other. But, we know how to change our minds, and how to love each other, too."  
Elio squeezed Oliver's hand, and they looked lovingly at each other. They both felt hopeful, although Elio was about to spend a day alone exploring Castel Wulfstan.

Dr. Gristwood and the familiar faces-although Oliver had no names to match them with- were waiting in the lab. It soon became clear that something had changed. Whenever Oliver had to sit or lie still, or wait, he felt restless. So restless his thoughts were scattered, and he felt anxious. However, he felt relieved whenever he was in motion, like running on the treadmill or playing a tennis-like game on a video game system rather like a Wii. He could tell the doctors around him noticed this, but they said nothing. Of course-he was the subject, they couldn't tip him off to what they saw and influence his performance in any way.  
"That's enough," Dr Gristwood said, and Oliver took off the visor and put down the racket. As soon as he did so, the game screen went blank.  
"Open the door to the next station," he was told, and did so. He sat on a white couch in front of a flat screen TV, and attendants put a cuff on his arm which was connected to a monitor beside him. Different scenes flashed on the screen: a crowded airport, a beautiful blonde woman eating an ice cream sundae seductively biting the stem of a cherry, a park on a sunny day, waves crashing at the ocean, a child crying, and finally, a forest.  
Finally, Oliver felt calm, whereas some of the other stimuli made him feel confused, irritated with boredom, or sad, because they were so human, things he didn't know if he would ever see again. But he craved the forest, the smell of trees and the uneven earth beneath his feet, the reverent feeling that overcame him in the forest and stilled his mind, compelled him to lower his voice when talking to someone else. He always felt watched by every invisible force of good and ill-there was the loving force which had created every bead of water on the boughs of the trees and every cell in his own body, and the indescribable feeling of being stalked and desired by something unseen that the Ancient Greeks had termed Panic, thinking it meant the god of wild things, Pan, was near.  
He took deep breaths, expecting the scent of wet pines.  
"Very good," Diana Gristwood said. She only said this when his tests were done for the day, and he was sent back to his room for rest and meals.  
Oliver reluctantly left the forest on the screen.  
"The virus has progressed, rapidly," Dr. Gristwood told him. "But, it can be managed. Your medications are being changed, and your residence will be changed if we find that you are responding as projected."  
"I can go home?" He asked.  
"No," she said flatly. "You'll be moved across the lake, to Casa Allegra."  
"Casa Allegra," he said. Allegra, he knew, meant 'happy' in Italian.  
"The other lycanthropy patients reside there. Lycanthropes suffer in isolation. Forming bonds with others is a key part of your recovery. As is green exposure. Even for human beings, access to green spaces reduces the tendency towards stress, anxiety, and depression. For you, it is even more vital," she said.  
"I've always like to hike," Oliver said. It was the most personal information he'd ever ventured to her, and he expected it to annoy her.  
"That's promising," she said.  
"What about Elio?" He asked.  
"He's not apart of the study. If anything, he could color the results. The residents of Casa Allegra were once human. You are all adjusting to your lycanthropy. Elio was raised from birth hearing colorful local tales about werewolves, and practicing something of a regional animistic religion in which they are a central figure. His influence could disrupt your development. He should go home now," Gristwood said.  
"So, you're saying he has to go because he might tell me what he's been taught about being a werewolf, and you need us to be blind and led by the hand, by you and your team?" Oliver said.  
"His people's beliefs are fascinating, if one studies all that. Folklore, and isolated regional tales and rituals," Gristwood said. "But that's not what we're studying here."  
"You keep talking about your research, and your study. Funny, I thought you were trying to help me," Oliver said.  
"We are. And through you, millions. Generations. Everyone after you," she said. "Which is why your infatuation with a slim hipped Italian boy will simply have to wait. Unless cooperating no longer interests you. Your friends chose a different path," Diana said.  
It would be easy to hate her. She certainly didn't go out of her way to be loved. But, neither was she cruel. Just unrelentingly factual. He needed the medicine that the Hunters provided. Although he had transformed during the full moon, that wasn't entirely a surprise. He had been bitten, and infected. He would always be infected. But, he didn't have to lose his mind, and become a beast and a killer. If he kept taking the medication, he would be safe. He could have a life.  
What would that life look like? He loved his major, and studying the patterns of culture around the world, but he wasn't sure where that would take him, after the undergrad years. He'd worked a lot of odd jobs during college-indifferent retail and fast food, but also some jobs as a cook and a caterer. On the best days, when he really loved his job, he could see himself opening a restaurant. Richmond was a foody town that loved locally sourced ingredients, and had a thriving vegan and organic food culture for a southern city. A lot of funky restaurants opened, were the talk of the hipster crowd, then folded in a few years, like in any food culture. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained.  
Would his father think it was feminine, or smacked of a layabout hobbyist who couldn't get a real job? No matter what he did, his father never thought he was strong enough. His senior year of high school, he had spent a lot of time alone writing in his journal and hiking, feeling like he didn't know where to go next  
Just like now. Rationally, he knew that he had just met Elio, but on an elemental level he felt desperate at the idea of being forced to live without him. He wanted a life with Elio in it. He never wanted the horrible scenes of his nightmare to come true, where he was the cause of Elio's death.  
"I'm not like them. I want to be normal. But I have to explain to Elio," he said.  
"Yes, of course," she said, and seemed to approve.

Kenji was reading in a big armchair in front of a fireplace, in a sitting room that looked like it belonged in an exclusive club for Englishman of 'gentle birth'.  
Elio, the child of academics, loathed to disturb anyone reading, but approached him and said, "Kenji?"  
"Elio! Hey! You're still here?" Kenji said.  
"Of course.Where would I have gone?" Elio asked.  
"You're slippery," Kenji said.  
Elio smiled. Maybe he was; it had gotten him back to Oliver's side. The perks of being a wallflower, indeed.  
"That thing you did yesterday, to my head. What was that called?" Elio said.  
"Oh, you mean Reiki?" Kenji said.  
"Yes! Can I learn more about it?" Elio said.  
"Um, I can muddle, but I only know the basics. All Hunters have to study healing," Kenji said.  
"Makes sense. So that you can tend to your comrades," Elio said.  
"Right. Plenty of people on the outside study energy healing. If you want to learn here, you would have to become one of us," Kenji said.  
"A Hunter?" Elio said.  
"Or, a Healer," Kenji said. "Kind of a drastic step to fulfill an idle curiosity. And your family probably wouldn't like it."  
"I have to be my own person, at some point," Elio said. "And it's not idle. I'm fascinated."  
"Well, if you're serious, talk to Nzinga. But what about your culture? The Benandanti have their own healing techniques," Kenji said.  
"But, they don't use only their bare hands. I've never seen anything like that," Elio said. "And I felt so safe, afterwards."  
Kenji smiled. He looked warm and friendly, as good looking, athletically built young men seldom look. And then there was that hint of sadness in his features, too. Elio would have been in love with him if he hadn't met Oliver. As it was, he could plainly see how handsome he was, acknowledged he was attracted to him, but felt no need to act on it. There was Daphne, too- he felt taken, off limits.  
"Glad I could help. Do you want to see the village? It's really charming, and beginning to look like spring," Kenji said.  
"I wish I could see it with Oliver," Elio said.  
"Are you asking about learning here so you can see him?" Kenji asked.  
"I can't lie to you. I do need to be with him, I think I would be really sad if I couldn't see him. It's funny, how we yean for someone we know is out there, and then meet them-does that mean we missed them before we met them? I wanted someone by my side so badly when I was 13, and my mind was being invaded. I knew there was someone absent, but meant to be there. I know he has felt that way about me, throughout his life. 'Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same'," Elio said.  
"I know how you feel. I do," Kenji said. Did he mean his late wife, Kelly, or Daphne, Elio wondered? "I'll talk to Nzinga for you. The energy healers work with our lycanthropy patients about once a week, by the way," he added.  
Elio smiled. This was very, very good news, as if whatever stars could be credited with influence over their lives were telling a story of he and Oliver, and smiled on them.


	19. Chapter 19

Even as Oliver's physical condition improved, he could feel Willem closer to him. He was there in the dark, before sleep and upon waking, saying with the force of presence rather than words, "Come to me."  
The new medication restored him to vitality and awareness, and he was allowed more time outside of his room: long walks with Nzinga, and even time alone in the vast library with it's domed ceiling and fresco of alchemical symbols. Willem was there, as he regarded the mountains on the horizon, beneath nature's symphony of birdsong and falling water. He was a whisper pressed to his neck, a fingertip caressing his spine, a voice, eyes.  
Oliver kept it to himself. There was no way in Hell he was worrying Elio, who was so pleased with his lessons in healing. He sounded so passionate when he talked about the concepts of energy. The world was in constant motion even in stillness. Nothing ever truly died or faded, but transformed.   
"Like the words on Shelley's grave, from Shakespeare's 'Tempest'," Elio said. "Nothing of him doth fade, but suffer a sea change, to something rich and strange". And in Shakespeare's English, 'suffer' didn't mean to withstand pain, but to allow. Like, 'suffer the little children...'. So, essentially, we allow ourselves to transform, all the time. Our cells are constantly dying and being reborn. We have so many lives," he said.   
"You don't have to do that, you know. Talk so fast, like you have to cram it all in before I give up listening to you. I could listen to you talk all day," Oliver said. 

"I guess I'm used to being the young, precocious one at the dinner table, reciting a fact or giving the 'Obligatory Young Person's Take on Things', and having to speak quickly before someone interrupts or loses interest. My parent's dinner parties are a contact sport," Elio said. "And its never pretty to be tackled by competing intellects."

"Sounds pretty Bohemian," Oliver said. 

"Very," Elio said. "Sort of exhausting, really. You really listen to me."  
They were in the library. The alchemical fresco looked down on them, the Red King and White Queen and their court of beasts, dragons, unicorns, griffins, six breasted mermaids lactating into a primordial ocean, and Latin inscriptions written in gold. The smell of old books was everywhere. A staircase led to the second floor of yet more books, and between shelves were old oak doors to rooms where visiting scholars slept. The Castel was a languid, secret place, where time seemed to stretch. Oliver could imagine getting lost in the library, losing the hours like one abducted by faeries, taken underground.

"Of course," Oliver whispered, and stroked Elio's face. Of course he listened. They had fallen in love before speaking very much, he'd had his body and his blood, now all that was left to consume were words.   
The alchemical sun above their heads had a face, and its paint winked with light drawn from the simple pewter chandelier with real candles. Something of a hazard, with all those books. To think, if all this knowledge was lost in flame as the library of Alexandria was lost in water! Elio closed his eyes, savoring Oliver's touch.   
"Doesn't the name 'Elio' mean golden sun?" Oliver asked.   
"I think you're taking poetic license," Elio said.   
"I'm no poet, trust me. There are no poets from Connecticut," Oliver said.   
"Is that where you're from?" Elio said.   
"Uh-huh. But I went to school in New York. And my dad works there," he said.   
"Now I know," Elio said.   
"Now you know," Oliver said.   
"Do you think we're allowed to touch?" Elio said, his voice softened to a content whisper by pleasure. Elio's voice wrapped around the word 'touch' crept along Oliver's skin. This desire felt more full bodied than the heady combination of temptation and fear he felt for Willem. Elio was something he could have, and wanted to want. 

"The books, Elio added. Do you think we're allowed to touch the books?" Elio said. 

"Oh! Yeah, the books. You probably are. You work here, remember?" Oliver said. 

"I study here," Elio corrected him. "And you live here."

"Well, that's about to change," Oliver said. 

"Oh?" Elio said.   
“The last blood tests I've taken have shown that the virus is responding to the new meds. I can join the lycanthropy study at Casa Allegra," Oliver said. 

Elio hugged him. "That's wonderful! You'll love the other patients there. There are three, so far."

"You're so compassionate. You give every one so much love," Oliver said. 

"Its because of you. I was still in my shell. I rarely spoke to anyone outside my coven. But something about you, made me brave enough to take a chance," Elio said. 

"I can't imagine what, but I'm glad you did," Oliver said, and kissed Elio. 

They were both happy. It felt like they'd cheated death, turned a corner where he couldn't see them. Elio's hands ran up and down Oliver's body almost in disbelief that they could touch. Oliver hugged Elio close, pretending to be the strong and steady one that had never doubted. It simply wasn't so.  
They wandered the library, peeking into books that smelled like time. Their illustrations were a lot like the ones on the fresco This was a library of alchemy. 

"She looks like Marzia," Elio marvelled of Virgo in Italian Renaissance dress with windswept hair and a feeling, forlorn expression. 

"You miss her," Oliver asked. 

"I'm happy that I'm with you," Elio said. 

"I regret how things happened with Daphne, too. I wish I'd been honest with her," Oliver said. 

"I wish I could take away all your regrets, and worry. And then you would only trust yourself," Elio said. 

He lovingly, carefully closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. Someone on the balcony above them was reaching out with a long router and sniffing the candles on the chandelier. Ash fell on them like snow in the calm darkness.   
Elio smiled, and took Oliver's hand, leading him to one of the rooms behind the library.  
Elio opened the door. The bedroom was minimalisticly elegant, like a room the heroine is locked away in from a Gothic novel. Elio closed the door, and they kissed once more. It was different, now that they were alone. 

"You do take away all my regrets, Elio," Oliver whispered against his neck as he left a trail of brief kisses along Elio's neck, taking his earlobe into his mouth and sucking it. Then he returned to his neck, letting his lips linger this time, inch by inch of skin. Elio swooned, his back arching beneath Oliver's palm, his lovely neck bared, just like in the dream of Willem drinking from him. It made Oliver sharply frightened and profoundly hungry to think of it.  
"You can, if you want to," Elio said. 

"You heard that?" Oliver said. 

"Saw. Heard. Felt. I always know where you are and how you feel. And I feel whole, to know how you are. But sometimes, you want to come to me, and you don't," Elio said. 

Oliver stroked Elio's back, reveling in the hidden strength of his seemingly delicate body. He looked into his eyes. So Elio knew about the nights he lay in bed alone, the moon over the lake inching closer to full, burning beneath his skin, his very cells crying out for Elio. But he was afraid, that he would hurt him somehow, just as Willem said. It wasn't that they never saw each other-but he couldn't always trust himself.   
"I can't. I don't want the things I saw in my dream to happen to you," Oliver said. "The doctors seem to think I'm improving. I can trust myself with you a little more each day. "  
"You're so hard on yourself," Elio said. "I want to heal you. Lie down."  
"No treatments. Not right now," Oliver said.   
"Lie down. Oh, and take your shirt off," Elio said.   
Oliver smiled. He eagerly stripped off his long sleeved grey t-shirt and lay down on the unfamiliar, cool bed.   
Behind him, Elio's eyes were closed, getting centered. He rubbed his hands together to warm them, and asked, "Ready?" 

Elio placed his hands on Oliver's lower back, his first chakra, where the sense of being grounded to the earth resides. Here is where we feel safe, or where dangers we've escaped linger and continue to plague us. Oliver loved the feeling of Elio's hands on him, even if they were just in one place. He began to relax. As strange as it was, he had only really begun to feel like himself since he had come to Castel Wulfstan. There was no way to escape himself, and pretend, since he had been bitten. To get better, he had to commit to himself, and he felt more grounded than he'd ever had. This hereness felt good.  
"Wake up," Elio said, and Oliver realized he'd fallen asleep.   
"I've wanted to do that for a long time," Elio added.   
"I feel safe," Oliver said.   
Elio sat on the end of the bed and began lovingly playing with his feet.   
"I'll be able to see you at Casa Allegra," Elio said, with a certain hesitance. 'If you want to,' he was saying without saying.   
Oliver realized how he'd hurt him by avoiding him, even if it was out of concern for him. He held his arms open, and Elio came to his arms. Oliver held Elio close. The warmth of his touch from before was still resonating along his skin and beneath it, ringing echoes, pleasant tremors. Emboldened by this excess of feeling he kissed Elio, with everything he'd tried not to feel. Something was telling him, 'Don't be afraid.' It couldn't be Willem- why would he bother? It was Elio, echoing within him.  
They kissed, their arms around each other, and Oliver thought of so many things at once that no one thought finished itself, they ran into each other, a movie with no plot. He saw the forested mountains and red rooves of tiny old villages that he had seen on his hikes with Daphne and a reluctant Dan and Jen, the middling waves of the Atlantic Ocean of his childhood, the tumbling hidden waterfall Willem had shown him, the woman in the blue dress watching he and Elio make love at the palazzo, and Elio, so much Elio. Elio at midnight collecting him at the edge of the village where he'd waited by the river, Elio's billowy white shirt, his Carnevale costume, Elio's slender body like a sculpture of Eros, lost his wings. Elio's emerald eyes, Elio's long, pink penis. Elio, Elio, Elio. The taste of his skin, his cum, the air passed between their mouths as they kissed, his blood. It was all worth the price of Oliver's soul. He wanted to give Elio everything. 

He knew Elio could feel this. He compassionately reached into Oliver's sweatpants, and lovingly stroked him.   
"When you feel this way, come to me," Elio said. "I'm your soulmate."  
"I...want to..." Oliver almost confessed, but he couldn't.   
"Oliver....I know," Elio whispered. The memories flowed between them. Elio knew Oliver's deepest desires-to devour him, to drink him. He knew it was the lycanthropy virus when it had been at its worst, but he felt guilty.   
"The worst is over now. The medicine is allowing you to reclaim your mind. That is not you. It never was," Elio said. His hands were still in Oliver's pants, lovingly stroking his lower body. Love not usually shown to that region usually mined for desire. But Elio stroked him with almost chaste healing, his hands warm but fleeting as they touched Oliver's thighs and buttocks. Not ignoring the hard cock and the enticing valley between buttocks, the tender nook of the anus, but charting them and continuing to map other terrain, never settling in one place.   
By the time Elio slid his sweatpants down, Oliver needed him so badly.   
"But its apart of me," Oliver said.   
"A virus isn't alive. That's why it needs a host. The medicine you're on now gives your body the tools to be itself and keep the virus from influencing you," Elio said. "Your memories cause you pain. I can feel it."  
"You can feel it all, and I should've thought about that. You needed me?" Oliver asked.   
Elio nodded, and Oliver saw now that his steadiness and ease was actually a quiet, contained shattering. He kissed Elio, helped him off with his jeans and sweater. 'Elio,' Oliver thought, 'teach me what you need.'  
"You," Elio gasped. "You, Oliver."  
He grasped Elio's penis gently and lowered his head to lick at the pellucid dew weeping from it, then fit his lips around the dark, rosy, swollen head. So good, every time, Oliver thought. He loved this. He sucked Elio, and beneath him Elio restrainedly undulated, steadying himself by grasping Oliver's shoulders.   
Elio came, and Oliver swallowed gladly.   
"I love you," Oliver said.   
"I love you, too," Elio said. He sucked his fingers, then gave them to Oliver to do the same. His fingers were slick with both their saliva as he opened his legs and began to prod at his tender, tight anus. When he breached himself he moaned, his head thrown back, in pleasure unexpectedly.   
But Oliver was concerned he'd overdo it and hurt himself. He coaxed Elio's fingers out of his nook and replaced them with his own.   
The close walls hugged him, and he moved his fingers, working a space for them inside Elio.   
"I need you," Elio said. Oliver was hard, and he so wanted it too, but knotting overwhelmed him. Just that a part of his body had so drastically changed, was frightening.   
"It's okay," Elio said. "Its new for me, too. We're in this together."  
"Absolute beginners," Oliver said, and removed his fingers. He took his penis in hand and guided himself to Elio's anus. Warm, teasing him with its hot little mouth he wanted to be swallowed by. He pushed in, and Elio moved his hips with Oliver's to better take him in.   
"Elio....are you okay?" Oliver asked.   
"Better than okay," he said, but his voice was strained. Against pain, or pleasure, Oliver couldn't tell, but he was dizzied by the pleasure of being inside Elio.   
"I missed you so much. I waited for you," Elio said, moving beneath him. "Dreamed about this....did you dream about it?"  
"All my life," Oliver murmured.   
"No, Oliver, I mean it," Elio said. He showed him the dreams he'd had before they met, of embracing in fields of wulfenia. Benandante often met in dreams, their spirits travelling while they slept. Oliver hadn't dreamed exactly like that, nothing as clear, but he knew that he'd desired someone who felt far away for a long time. He was trying to avoid his attraction to men, so he didn't allow himself to feel even the weight of his dreams. He felt it all, now.  
He gave Elio all of himself, looking into his emerald eyes, and they both shuddered breathlessly. It came, the knot, and Elio writhed at the abrupt contact with his prostate. Such sounds. Oliver's vision blurred at the pleasure of his surging, swelling flesh, and Elio's body holding him tight.  
It wasn't as jarring as before. They slowed down, kissing and caressing each other carefully. Elio came close to climax and breathed through it, and held Oliver through his dry orgasms, until they passed.   
Time passed, minutes rolling slowly like the sweat bedewing their body. Oliver came, laying beneath Elio.  
"Ollie...I have to change," Elio said.   
"Go for it, babe," Oliver said.   
Elio let go, and his body hugged Oliver's spasming penis as he became a man-wolf, a secret creature of ancient forests. His penis was hard, and this body's skin was darker, rendering the organ a bloodswollen violet. Spent himself, Oliver tugged at Elio's large, thick penis, and relished the spots of wet warmth on his belly when Elio came.  
They slept, Oliver's flaccid penis still inside Elio, who was a human again, slender and smooth skinned once more.  
"My love. Wake up," Elio said.   
Oliver groaned, not wanting to wake up.   
"Back to your room," Elio said.   
"Ok," Oliver said, and kisses Elio's neck. Elio moaned. He loved being kissed there, as Oliver knew.   
"No, really," Elio said. "We have to behave. No last minute infractions before your move to Casa Allegra."  
"And once I'm there?" Oliver asked.  
"Then we ditch this place," Elio said.   
Oliver laughed, thinking Elio was just talking.   
"What? Why not? Don't you want to run away with me?" Elio said.  
"I can't, " Oliver said. "But if we could..."  
He was nestled between Elio's legs, their half hard cocks kissing.  
Oliver closed his eyes, and saw their parallel life- two young men on a train to Rome, making love in a hotel bed, then emerging from the nest of their love to wander the city streets and kiss beneath ancient cathedrals, and in the glow of lights cast on the waters of a fountain. If they could run away.... He could feel Willem over his shoulder, and he didn't look.


	20. Chapter 20

"Today's the big day," Nzinga said, smiling proudly. 

Oliver smiled back, and adjusted his backpack. He was moving to Casa Allegra, where the other lycanthropy patients lived. It was a huge step in his recovery. 

"This is all you. I wouldn't be here without you, Dr. Wheatley," Oliver said. 

"You committed. And that made all the difference," she said. "Now, I just want to make sure you're clear on the terms, one more time."

They had talked about this before, that as Casa Allegra he'd be able to leave the house to walk by himself for daily 'green time', and even visit the nearby village, as long as he continued to take his medication, reported to the Castel's lab for treatments, and of course didn't speak to the locals about his condition.   
He could even, eventually, speak to his family, who had been told he was taking time off to travel some more by himself. Oliver didn't know if he could see Abby and Jake's voices or see their faces without either crying or spilling all his secrets. But he was determined not to burden them. They were such happy kids- no one had ever had to coax them out of a shell or a corner. Abby loved theater and choir, and Jake was always quoting stats of some sport Oliver didn't understand. They didn't seek attention, but they were at ease with others and themselves. They didn't need a brother like him, he knew, and he wasn't the great guy they thought he was. But he loved them like his own children, maybe the only children he'd ever have.  
He'd have to lie to them, too.   
The Network, which is how the Hunters of Castel Wulfstan referred to themselves, had facilities of a smaller scale all over the world. When he was stable, he'd be able to start his life over in a community near one of them, take his meds and continue to manage his condition while trying to start his life over.  
Those were the terms. He discussed them with Nzinga again, but she was interrupted by a call. 

"Right on time," Nzinga said. 

She turned the phone around, and Oliver saw Daphne's smiling face on a video call. 

"Daph?" He said incredulously.

She waved, smiling broadly. She looked so well, and happy. He was struck all over again by her beauty. He'd been so consumed with trying to hide his attraction to men, and convince himself he was in love with her, that after awhile he didn't see her. But Daphne had an inner loveliness that shone from her like light. Seeing it again, he was hit with this sureness that he wanted to know her, just like when they met at the campus bookstore as freshmen. But he'd had a chance to know her, and squandered it with self absorbed cowardice.

"Hey! So, today's a pretty special day..." She said. 

"Yeah, moving day," he said. 

"How do you feel?" She asked.

"Mentally, physically?" He asked. 

"Both," she said. 

"I feel.....amazing. The last meds made me groggy, but something changed after I transformed. I never want to sleep. I just want to get lost in the mountains," he said. 

"Dr., don't let Ollie take you on one of his never-ending hikes," Daphne said.   
Nzinga smiled. 

"And mentally....I feel like this happened because I was having a hard time being myself. And I pulled other people into that. You, Willem, and Elio. If I had been honest, if I had lived honestly, who knows what life would look like? But now I have to face myself," Oliver said. 

"That's good, Ollie," Daphne said. 

"But you didn't ask Willem to bite you. That's not your fault."

"No. But I flirted with him, fooled around with him, and then thought I could forget about him. I didn't think about how he must have felt," Oliver said.

"Sorry, I don't have much sympathy for the person that stole my best friend's life from her. I can tell Jen's family don't buy the story the Hunters gave them. I feel awful, not being able to tell them the truth," Daphne said. "But that's Willem's fault, not your's."  
"Its for the best that they don't know what she became," Oliver said. "But how are you, Daph?"  
Daph filled him in on everything he'd missed. The statues on Monument Avenue continued to be a bone of contention, and every once in a awhile someone tagged the marble form of a Confederate general with graffiti. The mayor, a charismatic young man who was the city's first black mayor, had commissioned a committee to decide what to do with the monuments. The park just off campus had been renovated, with a public piano painted rainbow colors, and a fountain that mooks liked to climb and swim in for a moment of Instagram glory. "Les Miserables" was coming to the Altria, and Daphne's favorite band Cowboy Mouth had played at a festival in Virginia Beach. Daphne was enjoying her internship at a non-profit, and had taken up horseback riding again, like when she was a girl, on weekends at a farm in Ashland.   
She sounded as if she was trying to do, not feel, so he left it. In a way, they had been perfect for each other, both of them reluctant to feel deeply unless they couldn't help it.  
"Don't horses have a therapeutic effect on the human mind?" Oliver said. 

"On me, anyway. Being with animals always de-stresses me," she said.

"I'm glad things are getting back to normal for you, Daph," Oliver said. 

"You're part of my normal, and you're not here. I hope we can always be friends, Ollie," Daphne said.

"Always," he said. Finally, he no longer felt guilty. They were starting over, as friends. This made him happy.  
They hung up, and Nzinga looked up at him. "Ready?" She asked. 

"Yup!" Oliver said, and adjusted the strap of his backpack. 

Diana Gristwood knocked perfunctorily on the half open door and let herself in. 

"There's been a change of plans," she said, without preamble, in her brusque English way. 

"All right....but I wasn't informed," Nzinga said. Oliver really wondered how those two spent Valentine's Day. 

"It was rather last minute, but won't interfere with your plans for Mr. Wolffstan's treatment," Diana said. Always 'Mr Wolffstan', never Oliver or Ollie. Sometimes he wondered if it was a way of hedging her bets emotionally. If he turned into a beast after all, she couldn't mourn him or blame herself if she never knew him. 

"You won't be moving to Casa Allegra after all," she said. 

"But I'm better! I've done everything you asked, taken these pills that make me feel like a zombie half the time. Crystals, meditation, mud baths, like some kind of.....I've done everything! You said I was better!" Oliver raged.  
He stopped when he realized that he was a big, angry, shouting man, shouting at two women who had done nothing but try to help him. He was a big, angry man, just like his father who always had an acerbic comment and rage in his eyes when he talked about people whom he had no respect for. Oliver felt hollow and thin like a reed growing beside a pond around him- like he could so easily snap. Now he had.  
"Instead, you'll be housed in a small house on the grounds. You and Elio. He can't be factored out of your recovery," she said.

"You want to see if their connection can play a part in how receptive to treatment Oliver is?" Nzinga said. 

"After reviewing some encouraging studies, yes," Diana said. 

"Hmmm," Nzinga said, clearly intrigued.

"Elio's....coming with me?" Oliver said. 

"Yes. You'll join the other patients for meals, assist them with chores, and I encourage you to get to know them. Wolves, like humans, are social creatures," Diana said. 

"Thank you," Oliver said. "And, I'm sorry. Its never right to talk to anyone like that."  
Nzinga put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm surprised it didn't happen weeks ago. Your life as you knew it for 24 years ended by chance, and you've committed to starting over where you are. That takes incredible fortitude. What happened just now revealed that you still have anger about your situation. That's normal, but how can you get better if you're angry at yourself? Don't attack yourself, heal yourself," she said. 

"Is that what Elio's going to help me with?" Oliver said. 

"Of course. But being healed is a choice. You have to be willing, and if any part of you is angry at yourself, you'll resist until you sort out those feelings," Nzinga said. 

"I understand," Oliver said. 

"Wonderful," Diana said. She saw more warmth in her eyes than usual. Maybe calling him by his surname wasn't coldness, but her way of helping him stay human. 

"All right, let's go collect Elio," Oliver said.  
An elevator took them to get another heavy, rusty door that led outside the castle. They walked through the forest, and came to a small spring that tumbled over wet boulders into several small waterfalls, thin rivulets of frothing water. Elio and several other young people were meditating under the small waterfalls. Oliver was thunderstruck by Elio's peaceful beauty. He looked not only beautiful but happy, like he was as content as it was possible for anyone to be.  
"Elio!" Nzinga said. 

Elio opened his eyes. Oliver knew that slightly confused, vulnerable look on his face, the same look he had when he first woke up. Elio blinked, and bounded towards them. The wet rocks were no trouble for him, he moved with a playful grace, so natural and happy.  
He hugged Oliver even though he was all wet. Nzinga explained the good news, and Elio seemed surprised but happy. 

"The little cottage, out back? Yes, I know it. But, is this part of the study?" He asked.

"Yes. We think Oliver will benefit from being close to you," Nzinga said.

Elio felt calm and energized by the waterfall meditation he'd been sharing with his fellow healing students. When he first came to Castel Wulfstan, he'd been imagining a gloomy fortress that he'd have to convince Oliver to escape from.  
Since that time, he'd seen that things were more complicated than he'd assumed. The greatest danger to Oliver was not from the doctors, but the virus within his body. He was afraid, with good reason, that without treatment it would progress and steal his reason and his body. If the old tales of the Malandanti's evil had any kernel of truth, it was the cruel acts of mindlessness attributed only later to a diabolical force. All that drove them was unchecked hunger, and without proper care it would consume him.  
Elio wanted to make him better. He'd learned so much in the last month-how to heal with various instruments, and even his own hands. He wanted to spend the rest of his life helping people, and he wanted to start with Oliver.  
"Elio, where are you going?" Said a beautiful young Asian American woman, about thirty, in a sage green linen beach cover-up that was, of course, soaking wet. 

"Oliver, this is my teacher, Koko Masanori," Elio said proudly. She'd taught him so much. 

"Masanori, like Kenji?" Oliver asked. 

"Yeah, he's my brother. The rebel. I, on the other hand, decided to go into the family business," Koko said. 

"All your family aren't Hunters?" Elio asked.

"Nope, we're healers. Always have been," Koko said. "But there are all kinds of ways to protect and care for people. Elio, is everything all right?"

"I'm moving in with Oliver. Since we're soul mates, being close will help him recover," Elio said. 

He noticed Oliver looking at him, marveling that it was so easy for him to say soulmate. It was clear that Oliver grew up in a cold, tense home. Elio's parents were his best friends, he couldn't imagine it. 

"That makes perfect sense. Love stimulates hormones like oxytocin and endorphins that cause feelings of happiness and physical ease. Fear and hate, on the other hand, cause anxiety and muscle tension. Drastic difference," Koko said. 

"Yeah, and a pretty easy choice," Oliver said. 

Koko smiled. "Should be," she agreed. "Elio, if you need anything, you'll ask?"

"Always," he said. 

"Well, I think Elio knows the way there. We'll leave you to it," Nzinga said. 

She and Diana started back towards the castle, whose towers loomed over the forest. 

"You're soaking wet. You have to change before we go up there," Oliver said. 

"I like how I feel, like this," Elio said. 

Oliver frowned. Elio found he liked watching Oliver dig in and push against his stubbornness almost paternally, nurturing and firm. He pulled a hooded sweatshirt and a t shirt out of his bag, and his expression was insistent that Elio wear them. He thought of pushing back just a bit to hear Oliver insist that he wear them, almost beg, almost force Elio to take care of himself. But, he decided he would give him his way, and peeled off his wet t shirt.

"See? You're shivering," Oliver said, as Elio changed into his clothes. "Sorry," Oliver added. "I'm the oldest, I'm used to being a big brother."

"What are Abby and Jake like?" Elio asked. 

They began to walk through the forest. 

"Jake is the happiest kid that ever lived. He's smart, but outgoing, and athletic. Everyone loves him. He's 16. He plays soccer in the spring, and lacrosse in the fall. Abbey is very artistic. She loves theater, and she sings like an angel. They're great kids," Oliver gushed. 

"You sound so proud of them," Elio said.

"Mom and Dad weren't as hard on them. I think everyone has high expectations for their first kid. If you're different than what your parents expect, you're messing with their plans. They feel undermined. But Abby and Jake came later, and had the freedom to be themselves," Oliver said. 

"And you didn't?" Elio asked. 

"I do, now," Oliver said. He took Elio's hand. 

In his healing classes, they'd learned small chakra points on the hand that could, when touched, relieve pain. 'This is why people hold hands,' Elio thought. The hand of the beloved was a shield against pain. Oliver had big hands. They would be graceless if he didn't have such a careful touch, too big to be a painter, or a pianist. But his skin told of his gentleness. He touched Elio as if afraid to break him. He was so, so gentle.  
They emerged from the forest to verdant hills carpeted with unruly grass and nameless wildflowers. The mountains in the distance had a misty blue haze hovering around them, and the hills swelled all around them like the shoulders of sleeping giants blanketed with greenery over the ages.  
Elio found the stone farmhouse, and pointed with his free hand. 

"There. That's Casa Allegra," Elio said.  
They ran. It was not the secret bliss of running as a wolf, but the innocent pleasure of running that one feels in childhood. Cold air kissed Elio's wet hair, and he felt so good. He made it to the farmhouse first. Oliver grabbed him and hugged him, which took him by surprise and made Elio laugh.  
Oliver's arm was around his waist as Elio pointed the way to the cottage, and together they walked across the muddy yard around the farmhouse, towards their home.  
The cottage, like the farmhouse, was made of stone with a dark shingled roof. Inside, it was cozy with a stone fireplace dominating the front room, a dining room, and one bedroom.  
"This is our's," Elio whispered. 

Oliver kissed his hair, his ears, his neck. 

"I know. I can hardly believe it, either. When Willem bit me, I thought I was dying," Oliver said. 

"Don't speak of it," Elio whispered. 

"I have to. I thought I was losing you when I'd just found you. I knew I'd waited too long to find you, and that was the only thing I regretted. Now....we have our time," Oliver said. 

"And our home," Elio said. 

Oliver kissed him. Elio delighted in their slow, tender, gentle kiss, their first kiss in the home they would share. Oliver began kissing the tiny moles on Elio's neck. It felt so good, he felt weak, and held onto Oliver as sensual warmth flooded his body. He closed his eyes against the sensations, which intensified with every touch, every time Oliver moaned his name or left a kiss on his neck or collarbone.  
Elio and Oliver, still kissing and embracing each other, lay down on the only bed in the cottage. Elio broke their kiss to gasp, exhaling out of physical necessity but for release, too. He felt need all throughout his body, his skin warm and sensitive and needing yet more touch. Oliver caressed him, raising the t-shirt and sweatshirt to kiss his belly. Elio was hard. He wanted to touch himself, he wanted Oliver to touch him. 

"Elio...tell me what you want," Oliver said.

He held out his arms, and Oliver kissed him again, as Elio's hands wound around Oliver's neck.  
Their lips, foreheads, bellies, and their lower bodies touched. Any closer and they would be one whole being, Plato's children of the sun torn asunder by lightning, sewn together again. 

"Elio..." Oliver moaned, teaching Elio the pleasure to be found in his own name. He loved feeling the vibrations of Oliver moaning his name against his skin.  
"Tell me..." Oliver repeated. 

"This. I want every day to be like this," Elio said. 

Oliver looked at him with warmth and love, and tenderly unzipped his denim shorts which were still damp from the waterfall. Elio was embarrassed of his erect penis, but he loved Oliver's touch as he lovingly freed it. Elio reached out and did the same for Oliver. He wasn't embarrassed now. He stroked himself, and Oliver did the same, pausing only to pull his clothes off as if they were cumbersome annoyances. They lay side by side, looking into each other's eyes and kissing as they stroked themselves. Elio liked the sameness of their actions, that they were doing this together.  
Oliver rolled to his side, which brought them closer, and wrapped a hand around both their erections. The knots hadn't formed, since neither of them had penetrated the other. Its as if they were human again, human together.  
"Elio," Oliver whispered.   
Elio knew by his trembling voice that he was going to come. He was shaking too. Oliver came first, the pearlescent white fluid pouring from him in dollups that hit his stomach as he made deep but subdued groans.  
Elio came on Oliver's stomach, too, his pleasure enhanced by the permission to do so.  
"Babe," Oliver said, stroking his ass lovingly. He wiped them off with his t shirt, then threw it on the floor.  
Elio lay on his chest, playing with Oliver's Magen David. He began to fall asleep but Oliver roused him to cover them up with the blankets and sheets on the bed. 

"My love....welcome home," Elio said. 

"You. That's my home," Oliver said. 

Elio peacefully drifted to sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

Marzia flipped her Visconti-Sforza Tarot cards, even though she didn't believe in fate. As far as she could see, life was a swamp of decisions-some your's, some others, all in the same soup. It wasn't an elegant theory, but life was messy.  
She sat on Elio's bed. He wasn't coming back, and the room no longer had his smell of boyish sweat and French soap. The cards were big and slippery, but she loved their ornate art, vines and flowers on their face and on the back, each picture revealing what the card was, Major or Minor Arcana. The paintings had the rosy faces and blue eyes of conventional Renaissance art, and like the art of alchemy dressed like either classical gods or aristocrats of the period in which they were painted. Every era in human history imagines the faces of its gods or any other invisible power to be none other than those of its own elite class. The insignia of houses Visconti and Sforza were stamped wherever possible, painted in gold.  
These were Elio's people, not her's. Her ancestors had probably been toiling dirt farmers who feared the Church, the devil, and witches in equal measure, and had gotten used to plague and hunger. Perceiving that the laws of the land were perhaps not on their side, they had begun to worship a heretical mythos, of a goddess and her daughter, who was on the side of the common people, not those that owned them. And this was how all of Marzia's grandmother's superstitions had come to their family-from hardship and vain hopes that a goddess would grant all their wishes.  
"What are you doing?" Chiara asked .

"Studying," Marzia said.

"Why do you have to learn that?" Chiara asked.

Chiara didn't have to do bupkus she didn't want to do. Her family has been Benandante healers for as long as Marzia's had been penniless heretics. But Chiara's family were paid for their efforts, and for centuries.

"Because Zelenia said so," Marzia said.

Chiara laughed. "You are always so honest. Its funny."

Marzia shrugged. Maybe it was.

 

Chiara turned over a card.

"What does this mean?"

It was the Tower of God. Marzia was alarmed. That card meant disaster. The tower it depicted was often drawn as being struck by lightning. It seemed accurate enough. Zelenia was an eccentric, with her short hair, yoga guru clothes, unmarried. People tolerated her only because her sister was, in Harry Potter parlance, a squib, incapable of any of the Benandanti's arts. Elio running away made her look weak- she couldn't handle her own family, what is a woman who can't care for a child? , is how their woefully old-fashioned thinking went. Matteo's father's rumblings were carrying farther than usual.  
"It doesn't mean anything without the next card," Marzia said.

Chiara took another card.

The Queen of Swords. Marzia loved her white dress, sword and shield. She could be Athena, the goddess of battle strategy. She represented a decisive, sometimes cutting personality- that was definitely Zelenia. Were the cards saying that she had to temper her sharpness, or sharpen her sword? What would stop the Tower from collapsing?  
It was all nonsense. How many cards had she flipped, trying to decide if Elio was her soulmate? They had all seemed favorable. The Lovers- well, that one was obvious. The Star- a new beginning. Ten of Pentacles-an excess of happiness. 2 of Batons- the beginning of a transformational journey.  
Why had she ever thought such a story was her's?

"Marzia, what's wrong?" Chiara said. "And don't say 'nothing.' You always do that, as if I'm blind."

"Its so hard to trust anyone. I thought Elio really cared about me. But I saw what I wanted to see. I know I was horrible when I found out about him and that American. But I was so angry," Marzia said.

"That's understandable. Who wouldn't be angry? I would have told them both just how I felt," Chiara said.

"What good would that do?" Marzia said.

"They would know!" Chiara said.

"Like they care," Marzia said.

Chiara shrugged.

"I'm just like my mother," Marzia said.

"What's she like?" Chiara said.

"Smarter than she realizes. But she sees things that aren't there about men. She liked her husband when they first met because she thought he was a tough guy who would be good only to her. He's not tough- he's a bully who needs attention. But she's stuck with him now. She chose him over me, time and time again. All for an illusion she wanted to be true, and fell in love with. I did the same with Elio. I convinced myself..that he loved me," Marzia said.

"I don't think you're like your mother. If thats what she's like. I have your word only. But you and Elio....you really did get close. You had every reason to believe he cared. And I think he does care. But he's a little caught up in himself," Chiara said.

"Oh, no, really, he's not like that. He listens. No man is really so good at answering, but its something when they listen," Marzia said.

"No, no, I don't mean self-centered. But he was ill for a long time, and then he got better but had to leave his family, and then everything that happened this Carnevale. Sometimes life sweeps us into the heart of our own lives, with little attention to spare to someone else's feelings," Chiara said.  
Marzia thought about this. Was she any different? Her heart ached for a normal, happy home with parents that listened to her and loved her. Her mother was tired of being alone, so she remarried a man little more than a stranger. She'd had no idea how proud of her Marzia was for caring for them all by herself, and how close she felt to her, her only parent. Marzia blamed herself, for her father leaving. What had she done wrong as a child? If only her father was there to support her mother. Her mother didn't see herself as a strong single mother, just a lonely woman.  
But, Marzia had come to the villa feeling all of that turmoil. If she had really been paying attention to Elio, maybe she would have understood that he wasn't the right person for her. She needed to heal, too. To let all the pain of her childhood home go, because her childhood was ending. She would always miss the happy days, when she was very young, and miss the time wasted, fighting, wishing it could have been spent making good memories instead. But, it was over either way. And staying in her feelings would only cloud her vision as it had with Elio.  
She turned over the next card. The Abbess. In the modern Tarot, that card was called the High Priestess. The Benandanti sometimes called the donna of their coven the Abbess, when she appeared in dreams to summon them. It seemed like a good sign- if one believes in such things.  
They went to Fernando's bookstore, which was open again. She was so upset when he talked of closing it, because she didn't want to lose a place that made her feel safe.

"Marzia, dear, if you knew where Elio was, you would tell us, wouldn't you?" Fernando asked.

"I don't know for sure, but I think he must be with the American. He's his soul mate," Marzia said. Fernando seemed to respect how hard those words were to say. But now that she'd said them, she felt good. She realized that she wasn't in love with Elio. She'd liked him a lot, and they slept together, but it had all happened so fast.  
Fernando took a call, and his face became truly worried. He hung up, and quickly asked Chiara and Marzia to come with him. He hurriedly locked up the shop and they rushed to the home he shared with his partner Claude, who made masks and costumes for Carnevale. Marzia was careful not to bump into the many dressmaker's dolls and wigstands as they rushed in.  
Elettra, whom Marzia's mother always called the town prostitute, was crying and frantic. Fernando comforted her.

"Girls, we need your help," Fernando said.

Upstairs, Elettra's son Genaro was lying in a stupor, the deep sleep of the body when the soul is travelling. More than anything, he just needed not to be moved. Chiara and Marzia rubbed his hands and feet. It was odd to think that they had all one through this, when they were around Genaro's age, and were now being called to help. Had it been so long? Had they come so far? For Genaro, the transformation was beginning, but Marzia understood that she and Elio, Chiara, Matteo, even in his own way, the American, Oliver, were still changing, growing, and healing, too. The Transformation was never finished.


	22. Chapter 22

The hills were draped in mist, the mountains were hidden. The mountains slept unseen in the mist, like wounded kings to wake upon their country's most dire  
need. Sleeping, the whole world was sleeping, the sky was morning pale and hiding the stars beneath dawn.  
Elio yawned, and rolled over, into the warmth of Oliver's body. God, but he was hairy. Elio smiled, at the realness of his lover. All those nights he had lain in bed tormented by Malandanti, he'd felt an audacious hope like a rope pulling him to the other side of that ordeal. And this was it! The happiness after all of his pain.  
He imagined Oliver having lunch with his parents and their intellectual friends, a quiet and amiably aloof presence as someone among the dinner party argued about the middle that was Italian politics. He would forever be the uncomprehending American on that score, but every once in a while the smiling mask would slip and his fierce intellect would emerge, unintentionally impressing everyone on more neutral subjects like the origin of a word. That was the kind of person he was, or could be now that he was free from shame.  
Elio played with Oliver's chest hair, remembering things that hadn't happened yet.   
"I should write about this place," Oliver murmured. "The carnival and the legends, all of it. Not the real story, but what people believe."  
"Oh, like Frazier in The Golden Bough?" Elio said.   
"Frazier was an armchair anthropologist. He never saw the extant cultures he wrote about," Oliver countered.   
"My father would love you. I wish you could meet him," Elio said.   
"Why not? Because...is it because I'm a guy?" Oliver asked.   
"No, no I don't think that would pose a problem. One of his best friends is gay," Elio said.   
Oliver sighed. "Some people are fine with what anyone else does with their lives, but they don't want their kids bringing it into their home. Live and let live, until they have to live it."  
"That's hypocrisy," Elio protested.   
"Well, maybe, but its how some people are," Oliver said obstinately.   
"Your parents?" Elio asked.   
"Its complicated," Oliver said. "I could always feel this scrutiny, whenever my dad said something homophobic, or when a news story about marriage equality came on....it was like they were checking me for a reaction. Like they always suspected and were always trying to confirm it. "  
"Why would they suspect?" Elio said.   
"I don't know. Because I never saw any problem with it, I guess. When you don't repudiate things, people suspect that you sympathize for an intimate reason. Art. I like art. In a real way, not just to impress people. I suck at sports, unless jogging is a sport. Is jogging a sport?" Oliver said.  
Elio laughed. "Hmm....people win prizes at marathons. Winning implies sport. I'd say, yes."  
"Okay, let's go with that. My father tried to share his world with me, his interests. Basketball, boxing, and his ideas about life, about winning, being strong. I was just curious about other things, like history and nature. I'm not very competitive. I had no interest in becoming a lawyer, the final straw. Anyway, I think he felt rejected," Oliver said.  
"I'm sure one day, you and your father will be able to talk," Elio said. "When you say it, I believe it," Oliver said.   
Elio loved his smile, even if it didn't quite reach his eyes. He kissed Oliver. It was hard to imagine parents who would care about who their son took as a lover. Elio's parents were so open. Naturally they didn't want him to get any diseases, or get a girl pregnant, but they'd talked about all those things, and such concerns only made sense. He'd felt so abandoned by the way they relinquished his care to Zelenia, but now he saw they had emotionally supported him in ways that weren't universal, and were always within him, giving him strength. He wished he could give Oliver that life. He put all his wish into his kiss.  
Oliver felt how ardent he was, but he couldn't have guessed the cause, that it was a different sort of passion than physical desire. Elio wanted so badly to make him happy that he wanted to cry, almost. It was a strange, heart full feeling.  
He realized that he was crying.   
Oliver wiped his tears with his thumbs.  
"Hey, why are you crying, buddy?" Oliver murmured.   
"Buddy? Are you serious?" Elio asked.   
"It just felt right," Oliver said. "Its what I called Jake when he was young, especially when he was upset about something."  
"You're a good brother," Elio said, and wiped his tears. "I just felt so much, that's all."  
"Just let it out," Oliver murmured. Elio's head was against his chest, and Oliver caressed his neck, pausing to stroke the little moles on his neck.   
"We should go to the farmhouse, and meet the others..."Elio murmured. Oliver kept kissing him, knowing he was just bluffing. He wanted this too much to stop for anything. Let go, let it all out.   
"I love this," he panted, feeling chills, such sweet, hot-cold chills up and down his back, and wherever Oliver's warm, big hands met his skin. He was hard, and still slightly embarrassed, though he knew Oliver could feel it. When would his body feel less like a stranger's? Lycanthropy, his sexuality, it was all so overwhelming.   
"Elio," Oliver moaned, with a note of awe, as if Elio was a discovery, a well in an enchanted wood. Oliver's hands stroked his belly, which put him more at ease. He closed his eyes.   
"Relax," Oliver said.  
"I don't know why I feel so nervous now," Elio said.   
"Because we're so happy, instead of being afraid. Are you happy?" Oliver asked.   
Elio nodded. He was in a happy, cloudy, oversensitive state of arousal. Every minute gain of his penis made him swoon, and he closed his eyes, bathing in the riotous cauldron of electric feeling within him.   
"I'm happy," Elio said. Anticipation spiced his pleasure. Any moment now, Oliver could grasp his heavy, weeping penis and suck him. He thought of Marzia doing so, and felt a pang of guilt for leaving her.  
"Hey, are you okay?" Oliver said.   
"I feel bad for leaving the way I did, without telling her that I care," Elio said.   
"I understand," Oliver said. "Talking to Daphne about everything helped us both. You and Marzia will have that closure one day."

This made Elio feel better, but he still doubted she would forgive him. He focused again on Oliver. Oliver's eyes, full of love and desire, the smell of their mingled sweat on the covers and on each other's bodies, his hands, his naked body, the morning light stroking his auburn body hair.  
Elio closed his eyes, as Oliver's mouth enveloped him. Elio's body led. Hot waves of sensation crashes along his spine, travelling up his neck to the top of his head. It all became too much when Oliver put his mouth to his anus, coaxing the tight, puckered ring of muscle with his tongue.

The only thing to do was ride the wave. Elio's eyes were closed, to better savor all this, when he opened them he saw Oliver roughly touching himself. He was just as abandoned as Elio. The energy around them throbbed patently with shared feelings. Elio could almost see a haze around them, a mist in their room.

He moaned Oliver's name. He watched it wash over him. Elio whispered Oliver's name and saw words alone work him to a state Elio didn't know how to adequately describe....enthralled and happy to serve in some way, just waiting to be told. He knew that Oliver sensed what he really wanted. Elio had been nervous to say so, despite how he'd seen how much it pleased Oliver at the Palazzo. It felt like they were starting all over, and that was so long ago.  
But Oliver understood, and lay on his back, opening his legs for Elio, who leaned in and kissed him, their bellies kissing as well, their cocks briefly flirting.

"Slow?" Oliver asked. 

"Slow," Elio said. He grasped himself, aligned himself to the door of Oliver's body and painted it with his fluids. They looked into each other's eyes as they did so. Oliver put his hand over Elio's wrist, guiding him in as he penetrated him. Elio was overwhelmed at first, but Oliver held him close, they kissed.   
In this way, the hours passed.


	23. Chapter 23

Elio dreamed. Not Benandante dreams. For the moment his soul seemed to be staying put rather than roving. He dreamed that it was summer, that he and Oliver were at the villa and the peaches were hanging from the trees in the orchard, so ripe they were lewd, blushing as if they loved in secret. He could smell them, earthy sweet like freshly bathed skin. He nestled into Oliver's skin. It was quite peachy- not just in color, rosy and ruddy where Elio was porcelain pale except for when he blushed, then he lit up like Rudolph's nose. But Oliver's skin was warm, soft, firm, and covered in bristly fuzz. Elio loved the coziness of sleeping next to him. He wanted to show Oliver the villa, to show him the orchards, the old statues of the Benandanti's special goddess, Diana, the lavender fields and olive groves, and especially the cold stream trickling down from the melting glaciers of the mountains, where he went to read, daydream, or, more recently, make love to Marzia.

"You like me, don't you?" She'd asked him, the first time.  
The happier he became with Oliver, the more he thought of her. He'd dreamed about the Carnevale, about the woman in the mask and blue dress who seemed so aroused watching he and Oliver make love. In Elio's dream, when she took her mask off it was Marzia. In Carnevale dress she looked like the sad eyed Virgo from Castel Wulfstan's alchemical drawings. He tried not to think about how good it felt, to think of her watching he and Oliver make love. Better yet, if she were to walk over to their bed, lean in and kiss him, her hair tickling his bare chest, as Oliver lovingly fellated him. Electricity danced up his spine at the thought. How he wanted this.  
Elio woke up to a persistent knock at the door. His first thought was Willem, Oliver's master, though he hated that term. But, why would a kidnapper knock? It must be one of the doctors from the castle.

"Ollie! I know you're in there!" Said a female voice, with a Southern American accent like Daphne's.

"Jen? What the fuck?" Oliver muttered, waking.

"But Jen ran off with the Malandanti, didn't she?" Elio said.

"Dr. Gristwood said so," Oliver said.

"OLLIE!" Jen said, pounding rapidly.

"Coming, okay?!" Oliver said.

He rummaged through his backpack and threw on jeans.

"No," Elio said. "Stay in the bedroom. What if this is a trap? Willem could be with her."

"Damn," Oliver muttered, for not considering that. "Then you stay. You saw the things he wants to do to you."

"I can handle him!" Elio said.

Another persistent knock from Jen.

"Let's go together," Oliver said.  
They crossed the small living space at the front of the cottage and opened the door. Jen was standing at their door, the rolling hills betweent the cottage and the farmhouse behind her, and....a pot of lavender with legs beside her.

"Oh, my God! Ollie!" Jen said, and hugged him as if he was her long lost brother and they'd just been reunited on a talk show.

"Jen, what are you doing here?" Oliver said.

Jen's eyes widened. "You are one rude Yankee sometimes, you know that?" She said.

"What's a Yankee?" Said the pot of lavender.

"A bastard, with no home training, who doesn't put sugar in his tea," Jen said. "After everything we went through, seriously, you're not happy to see me?"

"We? Last I heard you were living in a cave and eating villagers," Oliver said.

"Okay, thats a long story. Vimini, you can put that down," Jen said.

Given that Vimini meant 'wicker', Elio wondered what kind of name that was. She was a thin girl, about twelve, with serious dark eyes, and hair that was both light brown and sandy blonde. Elio hadn't healed her when he visited the lycanthropy patients. The patients he knew of were Isaac, Mounir, and a woman called Barbara.

"Housewarming gift!" Jen gushed.

"Its from Isaac's kitchen garden. You'll like Isaac. I like him very much," Vimini said.

"I'm sure I will," Oliver said kindly. "I'm Oliver," he added, and reached out to shake her hand.

"I'm Vimini," she said.

"Maria Teresa. Vimini is her last name," Jen said.

"Vimini will suffice," she said insistently.

Elio liked her.

"You can trust Jen. She has no interest in being a Malandante," Vimini said. "She's too kind."

"Aww, isn't she sweet? I was never allowed to talk back like that when I was a kid. I like it! Europeans really know how to live!" Jen said.

"Jen, we're relieved that you're doing well. But how did you make it to the farmhouse?" Elio said.

"I escaped," she said.

"How?" Elio said.

"You're acting like you don't believe me! Who are you, anyway?" Jen said.

"Elio's a healer," Oliver said. Elio expected him to say 'and my soulmate', or something to that affect. But, no, he didn't.  
"Oh! So you give those massages where you just lay your hands there and do nothing?" Jen said.

"In a manner of speaking," Elio said. "Jen, the fact is you did leave with Willem. When did you return? Why are you here now?"

Jen sighed. "Look, I just couldn't live like that! I mean, I love animals, but I never thought hunting was wrong-"

"Agree to disagree," Oliver said.

"Because I know hunting actually helps to regulate the wildlife population and stuff. But...its different when you do it with your teeth. I felt so wrong. Like I was hurting another living thing and I had no right to. I felt awful about myself. I'd killed something, even if it was one of those goat-ram things that runs sideways,” Jen said.

"Chamois," Vimini said.

"Yes! Thats it. I read about them in a travel book before we came here. I didn't really want to come on this trip. But Daphne said there'd be great wine," Jen said.

"That's it?" Oliver asked.

"That's it. That's me. I used to be shallow, spoiled, and selfish. But I never knew it. I know it now. And I wonder if that's why it was so easy for me to hurt the chamois. Because I was used to only thinking about myself," Jen said.  
"You were acting out of instinct, thats all. Without medication, you had no way to control the symptoms of the lycanthropy virus," Elio said.  
"I don't know about that, but thank you. There's so much I didn't see. It hurts to know you hurt an innocent thing. I wanted to do better. So I found a way out of the tunnels, and back to the castle. Dr. Gristwood was as skeptical of me as y'all are, but she took me back. And now you're here!" Jen said.  
"And Dan?" Oliver asked.

Jen rolled her eyes. "This is the ultimate thrill to him. Like test-driving a McLaren or something. He's not going back to basic cable, put it that way."

"I get it. Has he killed more than a chamois?" Oliver asked.

"I left! I don't want to hurt anyone!" Jen said. It told them all they needed to know.

"Jen, I'm gonna be honest, I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I'm glad you want to commit to getting treatment. We can both have our lives back, somehow," Oliver said.

"I just wish Daphne didn't have to carry all this alone," Jen said.

"I know, I know," Oliver said.

"This must be killing you! Can you talk to her, at all?" Jen asked.

"We spoke this morning," Oliver said.

She looked relieved. She turned to Elio and said, "Those two are so in love. Four years! Can you believe it? And they do everything together. Its unbelievable. Me and Dan were never like that. Even before, you know, the whole eating human flesh thing. Him, not me- I'm not about that life."  
"So, why aren't you in the Castel? Oliver had to have many treatments before he was cleared to come to the farm," Elio said.

Jen shrugged. "Dr. Wheatley said I would decline in isolation. So, here I am. Isaac and Mounir have been lovely, there was a woman named Barbara here for a while but she was released and went back to Canada, where she's from, and Vimini here-"

"My past isn't very interesting, at all," Vimini said. "Do you like your plant?"

"We love it! Freshens up the place. Smells like laundry," Oliver said.

"You're American," Vimini pointed out.  
Oliver nodded. Vimini’s eyes were locked on his, and then her gaze began to wander and she looked dazed. Oliver took the heavy vase of potted lavender from her just as she began to lose her grip on it. He set it on a nearby table, and gave her a comforting smile.  
“It’s the medicine. It makes me….woozy,” she said.

"I don't like how groggy the meds make me, either. Let's get some fresh air?" Oliver said.

"Allons-y!" Vimini said. Oliver opened the door for her and they headed outside to ramble outside. He looked like a young father with his daughter. This is how he must be with Abbey and Jake, Elio thought.

"Sweet kid," Jen said. "So....you and Ollie were doing what, exactly, in here?"  
Oliver had not told Jen that they were together, and he had let her think he was still with Daphne. Elio didn't know what to say. On the one hand, helping his patients was more important than anything. On the other, a soulmate shouldn't be denied.  
"I was about to go for a walk," Elio said.  
He left Jen standing in the cottage. When he met Daphne, she quickly adjusted to the new reality that Oliver was in love with him. Maybe because she had found gay porn on his phone months before. Daphne was a smart, practical woman. But, Oliver still felt the need to hide. Elio could barely smell the crisp, sweet, cold air, or enjoy the sight of the mist wreathed mountains in the distance. He walked to the farmhouse, and knocked.

"Elio!" Mounir said, answering. He was a short man with cheerful, curious eyes. "Hello!"

"Hello, Mounir," Elio said.

"Are you here for our treatments?" He asked.

"Just to say hi," Elio said.

"Then I'll make coffee," Mounir said. "Have you met Vimini?"

"Actually, yes, although at first I thought she was a lavender plant with legs," Elio said.

"Ah, yes, she stole one of Isaac's babies to be the newest resident's housewarming present," Mounir said.

"Was he upset?" Elio asked.

"Who could be angry at that face? She looks like a Precious Moments figurine," Mounir said.

Elio laughed. She did resemble the mawkish ceramic children.

"I'm not familiar with her case- was she bitten?" Elio said.

"I'm afraid she loathes talking about herself. The underrated ranking of Anne Bronte amongst English novelists, the merits of modern jazz, and the weather, but her past? No," Mounir said.

"I understand. She's so young, to be in a place like this," Elio said.

Mounir put his hand on Elio's shoulder.

"We're all here for her," he said.

She was about 12. Twelve was the last normal year of Elio's life- living with his parents, school in Milan, piano lessons and Hebrew lessons for his upcoming Bar Mitzvah. But it never came. The attacks began.

"How's Isaac?" Elio said.

"Sleeping in," Mounir said. "He says if there is no New York Times to wake up to, what is the point of being up bright and early?"

"My father loves the Times," Elio said.

"I think he and Isaac would be great friends. Your father seems wise, and gentle," Mounir said.  
Elio couldn't help but feel that he was hiding something. He and his lover, Isaac, were both attacked by a feral Malandanti on a camping trip, but Isaac was exhibiting signs of dementia from the lycanthropy virus. Sometimes he forgot where he was and was distressed not to see the familiar trappings of their home in San Francisco. He looked for their pet cat, Armistead Maupin, who was being cared for by Isaac's sister; he had once gotten lost in the woods thinking he was walking to his favorite cafe. The doctors were trying different combinations of meds, and he had good days and bad days.

Elio decided to leave it.

He and Mounir sat down to their coffee in the kitchen.  
"Thank you, for not prying," Mounir said. "This morning wasn't so bad. He's just fatigued."  
"I'm sorry," Elio said.  
"But, why? None of this is your fault, Elio! You're wonderful at what you do," Mounir said.  
"I wish I could make everything better," Elio said.  
"Wounded healer archetype," Mounir declared.  
"I'm familiar with the theories of Carl Jung," Elio said.  
"Then you understand that your need to heal others comes from your own pain. Your need to heal yourself," Mounir said.  
"I get told to heal myself quite a lot these days," Elio said. "I know its true. But where do I begin?"  
"Your work with others is showing you the tools you need," Mounir said. "God, do I sound preachy?"  
"No, not at all. I appreciate your honesty. I think you're used to taking care of people, too," Elio said.  
Vimini and Oliver returned, followed by Jen, who looked a little pensive and adrift.

"Elio, this is Mounir. Mounir, this is Oliver Wolfstan," Elio said. He didn't say soulmate either.

Mounir kindly welcomed Oliver, and explained that Isaac would probably wake up later. Elio decided to leave them to get acqauinted. He went upstairs.

"Are you sad?" Vimini asked.

"No," he lied.

"Yes, you are. Are you sad about Oliver?" Vimini said. "Because he might die? Or is it something else?"

"I think I'm just....affronted. I'll get over it," Elio said.

"How did he affront you?" Vimini asked.

"You ask a lot of questions," Elio said.

"Yes, I know. If he really likes you, he'll come look for you in a few minutes," Vimini said. "Just wait."  
Vimini dashed off. Elio hadn't expected Oliver to do that, to not contradict Jen when she assumed he was still with Daphne. He knew Koko and Nzinga would tell him to have compassion. It must have hurt Oliver to lie. The need to hide his sexuality was such a habit, he couldn't break it even now that there was no need to. How hard it must be, to assume you won't be accepted.  
"Elio," Oliver said. Vimini was right; he came to find him.

"You let Jen think you're still with Daphne," Elio said.

"Jen doesn't need to know who I'm sleeping with. I was protecting our privacy," Oliver said.

"Why does everything have to be so private?" Elio said.

"I thought Europeans were known for their discretion?" Oliver said.

"If you love someone, you're proud to tell people you're with them," Elio said.

"I am proud to be with you," Oliver said. "But I'm not used to being open about anything about myself with Daphne's friends. We don't have anything in common. Religion, politics, general ideas about life-none of it. "

"What about your friends?" Elio said.

"I guess I was so caught up with Daphne's social life, I didn't really get to know too many people in Virginia on my own," Oliver said.  
"What about where you're from, in Connecticut, or in New York when you were at school as a boy?" Elio asked.  
"You know, it was high school. Some people I follow on social media," Oliver said with a shrug. "Sometimes I feel like a ghost. Haunting life instead of living it, insubstantial. I don't know why its so hard to get close to people. The two people I've felt closest to, besides Jake and Abbey, are you...and Willem. It was so sudden and so real with both of you. I felt like myself. I felt like I knew who that was, and it was easy to be....me," Oliver said.  
"With Willem?" Elio said.  
"When we met at the hostel," Oliver clarified. "Then I met you, Elio....and it was even more instant, intense, and real. I'm sorry I upset you. But I'm still learning how to be honest and open. Hell, sometimes it feels like I'm learning to use my heart, and really feel, for the first time."  
The window in the spare bedroom where Elio had fled to had a view of the lake. Elio leaned into Oliver, and together they looked at the sunlight dance on the water.

"Okay," Elio said. "I understand that. This is new for me, too. And don't feel bad for feeling a connection to Willem, in the beginning. You just hadn't met me yet!"

Oliver laughed.

"You're so understanding," he said.

"No, I'm not.I'm not perfect. I....still think of Marzia," Elio confessed.

"I know," Oliver said. "I saw, last night...."

"And you're okay with it?" Elio asked.  
"I was...intrigued. There's so much I don't know about...how I feel. I like guys, I can accept that. I thought that meant I didn't like women, at all, but when you thought about Marzia and I saw it... " Oliver said.  
"You enjoyed it?" Elio said.  
He nodded. Elio could tell this was a burden, and confused him. But Elio was relieved. Oliver was his, he was just figuring things out. They'd figure it out together.


	24. Chapter 24

Isaac recovered his strength. He and Elio took to each other quickly, bonding over music.

 

"I don't get it-who got you into all this stuff?" Isaac said, as Elio marvelled at his vinyl collection: Patti Smith, Devo, the Talking Heads, Roxy Music.

Elio shrugged as the Knack played from the hypnotically spinning black disc.  
"I've been told I'm an old soul," he said.

"That's preferable to just being old," Isaac said. "You should bring your guitar, next time you and Ollie deign to venture out of the cottage."

"Um, his....treatments are very time consuming," Elio said.

"Treatments," Isaac repeated dryly. Elio almost blushed. Seems everyone knew they'd been holed up in the cottage, devouring each other.

"Anyway, my guitar is at home," Elio said.

"Far from here?" Isaac asked.

"Far. I sort of...ran away," Elio said.

Isaac seemed to understand. "Everyone has to leave home. Its just part of growing up. Even if you still live with your parents, it's not the same, is it? You've left them in other ways. But, what's hard is when you leave without saying everything you need to say," Isaac said.

Elio changed the record, to early R.E.M, when Michael Stipe was at his mumbliest and still had hair. His whole story poured out-his parents giving him to Zelenia, the Malandante attack, Marzia, and then Oliver.

"That's a lot, Elio," Isaac said.

Elio rolled his eyes. "Why, because I'm a kid?"

"It would be a lot for anyone," Isaac said, and Elio relaxed.

"But, we're together now," Elio said, referring to he and Oliver.

"And that's good, but neither of you can rely on the other to make up for every bad thing thats happened before. Trust me, I've been that guy," Isaac said. "Loving someone and needing them to love you more and better than anybody before are different things. Mixing them up is painful."

"I haven't mixed anything up. We love each other," Elio said.

"I don't doubt that. And of course life is better with him in it. But, your past is still your's to deal with. Do you want to ask your parents if they could have done things differently?" Isaac said.

"Of course. But, deep down, I know they couldn't have. The Benandanti may not be killers like the Malandanti but, we don't belong out there, do we? We tried to convince humans that we were their protectors, different from witches and Malandante, but it didn't work, and we went into hiding. We're still in hiding. We're exiles," Elio said.

"Not as long as we have each other," Isaac said, and hugged him. Elio felt like he was talking to his father. Mounir was right, Elio thought his father and Isaac probably would like each other.  
Elio went outside. Jen and Vimini were in the kitchen garden. It all looked so idyllic-the farmhouse, the cottage, Jen with her wholesome blonde American beauty and innocent little Vimini who looked like a wood sprite from a Victorian fairy tale collection. Elio didn't understand why he thought so often of the past- Milan and his parents, and of Marzia back at the villa- when the present was so beautiful. The mountains were visible at one vantage, and a glittering blue scrim of the lake just beyond the green hills. Elio couldn't get enough of the beautiful surroundings, could never look long enough in any one direction to see it all.  
"Elio!" Jen called.

He walked over to the garden.

"You looking for Ollie?" She said.

"He's on a walk," Elio said.

"We're supposed to do that. To 'absorb green energy'," she said, forming quotation marks with her fingers. She spoke with commiserating, casual contempt, expecting her listener to share her antipathies, in this case Dr. Wheatley's theories.

"Its called grounding," Elio said.

"Yeah, I know. I'm just not all nature-y like Daphne," she said.

"Why'd you agree to come on an extended hiking trip in rural Italy?" Elio asked.

"Daph has a way of making everything seem like its gonna be a blast. Or making things seem like they're okay, when they're not," Jen said. "She's an eternal optimist like that."

"And you?" Elio asked.

"I'm shallow. I mean it. She communes with nature, I go to Premium Outlets," Jen said, and added, "that's a mall."

"I gathered that. But I think you have more substance than you think. You couldn't live as a Maladante. I respect that," Elio said.

"Thanks, Elio," Jen said. She hesitated, a thoughtful look on her face, and added, "can I tell you something?"

"Go for it," Elio said.

"I know you and Ollie are together. I guess he didn't say anything to me because he thinks I'll be an ass about it. Fair enough. I couldn't imagine being single. Me and Dan, we were a package deal, and most of our friends were couples. Even when girls talk amongst themselves, its about their boyfriends. It would have been weird to be this lonely only single girl with nobody to talk about. But, when we escaped the Castel I felt like Dan was a stranger. Or I was a stranger to him. I saw that he wasn't sarcastic he was cruel, he wasn't ambitious, he was selfish, and he wasn't traditional, he just thought I should do what he says because he's a man, and I'm a woman. And I....I didn't have to stay with him just to have something to talk about with my friends," Jen said. "I wish I had been stronger. Ollie can't be the only person who thinks I'm just like Dan because I didn't have the guts to disagree with him. Wow! Why is it so easy to talk to you? You're 18 and I just met you!"

Elio ignored the reference to his age. He hated being reminded he was so young.

"We're strangers. That’s why it’s so easy. I find it easy to talk to Isaac and Mounir, too," He said. "Maybe sharing these things is the only way to become more than strangers."

"Are you and Oliver going to miss dinner again? What do you two eat?" Vimini said, coming over to them with a basket of herbs.

Jen threw Elio a saucy look laden with implications. He and Oliver had glutted themselves on each other in solitude. All those tastes came back to him now, his mouth filling with memory, of blood and cum and sweat misted skin. Elio blushed. To his surprise, Jen hugged him around his shoulders.

"Come on, let’s take these inside. Stay for dinner. Isaac is an amazing cook! " Jen said.

"He has an amazing vinyl collection, too," Elio said.

"I heard y'all playing that weird robot music from the 80s," Jen said with distaste.

"It’s called New Wave," Elio said.

"Is it still New Wave if its old?" Jen said.

Vimini looked at them as if they were wasting time, and they began to walk back to the farmhouse.

"Hey, go ahead without me- I should go find Oliver," Elio said.

Jen nodded. A grave look flitted across her eyes, and Elio knew she was thinking about Willem, about the possibility that he could be somewhere around, waiting to catch Oliver alone. He wondered what she had seen in the Malandanti's lair.  
As the Benandanti began to figure out that humans would never be able to accept them as a benevolent counterpart to the witches and Malandanti who terrorized them, the Malandanti began to get sloppy. Convinced their malice wouldn't be conspicuous beside the frequent outbreaks of plague and smallpox, and the just as frequent famines that occurred in the region, they killed and tormented humans psychically in greater numbers, and when captured by the Inquisitors of the Catholic Church told their secrets blithely, convinced of impunity. They divulged their actions, but also their diabolical lore, that they believed themselves to act in the name of satanic forces. Zelenia had once said she believed that the Malandanti spoke as they had to the Church officials to scare them. What could be worse than for someone to confirm,'Yes, in fact, I am your worst fear?' It smacked of arrogance, to Elio-why not tell the truth, for they believed nothing would come of it?  
The witch judges of Italy were remarkably lenient compared to their English and German counterparts, and let many accused of witchcraft and lycanthropy go with 'slaps on the wrist', or lost track of their whereabouts in between their imprisonment and trial. However, though Benandanti and Malandanti alike kept their lives, the wild claims of the Malandanti had conflated them with the Benandanti and witches, all of them confused in the mind of fearful humans who rejected any hint of the supernatural in their lives.

But what of how they lived, now? Obviously, Jen had seen things that she could not abide, and run back to the protection of the doctors who wanted to suppress her lycanthropy. It made Elio almost curious, though in general he didn't like to think of Malandante, Willem in particular.  
He decided to enter the forest, and catch up with Oliver. Elio loved the forest. His mother used to take him to the sun drenched groves of olives and laurels around her family's villa, and show him the shrines of Diana, the goddess of the secret groves. They would leave little offerings. It didn't feel like what his father's faith would call 'idol worship' because his mother explained that a statue of the goddess was just like a picture of a loved one- it was to have the image of what you love before you. Really, she was the loving energy of silent moments by oneself, loving moments between yourself and others, and the soul of the earth.  
These forests were different than those sundrenched groves of small, twisted trees that looked like the forms of nymphs mercifully frozen in place as they ran from an amorous god. The towering evergreens above him looked down like the giants that adults seemed to be when one was a child. Elio felt safe walking beneath them, in their dark, fragrant shadows. The sound of water tumbling over mossy rocks called him on. There were no malevolent presences, only the pure and ageless energy of trees and earth, water and the wet, crisp air. The air tasted and smelled fresh, icy. Elio sometimes felt cursed, but now he felt blessed. He was in the heart of the goddess's domain-the spirits in the mist worshipped throughout Europe, the nymphs and rusalkas, the virgin ghosts. He'd been taught not to fear, the dark or the cold or the heart of the forest, the night of a new moon or winter's bleakest days- it was all divine, in a restful way rich with potential, laden with hidden energies.  
The sound of a river guided him. He caught glimpses of the water between the trees, but then it was unseen again. Finally, he emerged at the falls. Water tumbled in frothing curtains over dark cliffs, and the foaming river flowed around small islands and boulders. On one of the boulders, Oliver was cradling a chamois, or at least its corpse, his arms around its neck, his face burrowed into its neck. Elio rushed over, flinching at the icy water until he got used to it. It was knee high, then waist high, finally the earth gave out altogether and he was embraced by the cold water, abd swam over to the island. When he crawled ashore, he was confused. Oliver was huddled up inside his blue parka and sitting on the ground, there was no chamois, no blood.  
He understood-he'd seen Oliver's thoughts. He’d seen Oliver’s wish to overpower and glut himself on a live victim, the chamois. The desire lingered, though the animal had fled.

"You let it go?" Elio said.

"Yeah. But it was hard," he said.

"It means the meds are working," Elio said.

"Right. Suppressing something. Something within me, that's always there," Oliver said.

"You have self-control," Elio said. He took Oliver's hand, and stroked it, reveling in the red-gold hair on his hand and his wrists.

He wanted to Oliver that he knew him better than that, and his worst fears of himself were nothing like the real him. But he didn't know that, did he? Or, he may know it with everything inside him, every instinct, but he did not have the years of reference to support it.  
They had met only a little over a month ago. Soon the full moon would be full for the second time since they had met, and both were waiting to see what Oliver would become.

Elio kissed Oliver's hands.

"Let's go home," he said.

And so they crossed the river, together. As they walked in the forest, Oliver lamented that Elio was so wet from thr brief swim in the cold river. He had been so concerned about Elio catching cold, lately, and Elio secretly warmed at his concern.

"We can't keep holing ourselves up in the cottage. Getting to know everyone is good for you," Elio said.

"I take a walk with Vimini every morning," Oliver said.

"Why won't she go by Maria Teresa? It’s a perfectly normal name," Elio said.

Oliver wore a bemused smirk.  
"She's 12. The last thing a 12- year- old girl wants to be is normal. They want to be unique. Abbey dyed her hair purple," Oliver said.

"That's not so shocking anymore," Elio said.

"Well, it was to Mom," Oliver said. "I thought it was pretty cool. I think her rebellion stopped there. She's a great kid."

Elio squeezed Oliver's hand. "I always wanted a real family. You know, with brothers and sisters. It just didn't seem normal, to have no one, " he confided.

"Plenty of people are only children. It’s not weird," Oliver said. “But, I’m sorry you were lonely.”  
The forest gave way to the hills that sprawled out to the lake, and beyond them the farmhouse. A cheerful sun brushed everything they saw with gentle gold, and the mountains behind them were powdered with immortal snow.

"Elio! What have you been doing?" Jen exclaimed, despite the fact that Oliver was wet too.

"It was hardly a quest for the Sangraal; I just had to wade in a little," Elio said.

"Go dry off, Sir Galahad, before you catch pneumonia," Jen said. Oliver was surprised she caught Elio's reference to Arthurian legend.

Elio lightly patted her shoulder. "It’s okay," he said.

Elio was so sweet and full of concern for Oliver, Jen, even Marzia who was miles behind them. Oliver's heart warmed at Elio's easy ability to love and be loved, and to openly care.


	25. Chapter 25

“If you know where Elio is, you should just say something,” Chiara said. 

Marzia said nothing. Chiara had never put much stock in rules. She had the luxury of acting bored by them. It was Marzia who had felt compelled to be perfect, to memorize every litany to the goddess even if it was just a blessing of bread, to earn Zelenia’s patronage of her by never putting a foot wrong. The girls walked aimlessly by the river, the city wall behind them. Marzia picked up a wet branch and tossed it into the muddy water just to expend energy somehow.

“But, I don’t know. He slipped off when we were swimming. I was with you and Matteo. You know that,” Marzia said.

Again, Matteo, whose family had been the coven’s Captains for generations, would not pay as she would for any trouble. It was his father who was stirring talk against Zelenia, using Elio’s disappearance as proof that she was incompetent. Marzia wanted to help, but she didn’t feel free to speak intimately to the person she admired most. She couldn’t comfort Zelenia, because she wanted to appear strong, nor could she tell her what she suspected about Elio and lose her respect.  
In her heart, however, she knew he had gone to the Alps. Personally, she didn’t bother to feel betrayed. Hadn’t she felt something missing? She wasn’t willing to pretend they were perfect for each other in the first place.  
“Lying is just going to make everything worse,” Chiara said.  
“People talk. It blows over. Anyway, maybe he is in Milan with his parents,” Marzia lied. He was with Oliver. He had chosen his man, just like her mother, but this time Marzia felt an acceptance that she hadn’t when she was forced out of her home by the tension between herself and her stepfather. 

“You know that’s not true. People are saying that she lets Malandante prowl the street, and gives children to the Hunters to study and lock away in the darkness,” Chiara said.

“People are saying, or Matteo’s father is saying? He is just a bitter old man who drinks too much, and has too much time on his hands. When is the last time the Benandante needed a Captain? He has a useless post he feels everyone else should take seriously. He thinks he is important, no one else agrees, so he talks to get attention,” Marzia said.

“This is more serious than you think,” Chiara said.

“We should focus on Genaro,” Marzia said.  
They had duties. They were caring for Genaro, Claudes’ nephew, who would probably transform for the first time at the end of the month. He was fourteen, shy, sweet, a little odd, and very trusting. His mother called him ‘Caro’ as if it was his name, but he didn’t put up a big show of embarrassment. Marzia had always liked hanging around Fernando’s bookstore, and finding novels in various languages, drinking coffee, and listening out for the Roma violinists and accordion players that occasionally played outside or across the street, their convivial and enchanting music drifting into the shop like a fragrance. Now, she got to see his home with Claude, which was crowded with Claude’s costumes and masks. When he was working on something new, he asked Marzia to pose for him as he drew, or to try on the costumes he created months in advance of Carnevale. She felt like an opera diva, except she couldn’t sing, when she was wearing Claude’s costumes. Genaro mostly read, or watched the news and nature shows on TV, or drifted around eating the way boys of a certain age do, when Chiara and Marzia weren’t stabilizing his energies with crystals. His mother, Elettra, was warm and friendly. Marzia had been shy around her, at first. Her dyed hair and tight clothes seemed visible testaments to the aura of scandal she gave off and the disapproval with which the village regarded her, including Marzia’s mother. But, she seemed like every other woman in the area Marzia had ever met, who enjoyed cooking and soap operas, and doted on her child. She didn’t seem frightened by the idea of Genaro being a Benandante. Maybe he would be able to keep his home, and his family, unlike Marzia and Elio. She enjoyed preparing Genaro for his transformation. She liked knowing that he wouldn’t have to suffer. 

“Genaro is fine. What about Elio?” Chiara pressed. This wasn’t like her. The world went on around her, and she dismissed it as the problem of adults, or more serious people. ‘Life’ was what she liked, what she pursued, and she was quick to dismiss what bored her. If even she was anxious, maybe there was something to Matteo’s father’s talk. 

She wasn’t sure how much to tell Chiara. Instead she insisted that they must return to Claude and Fernando’s, that they should check on Genaro. They left the river behind. Marzia took in the familiar sights of the village, the square and the cathedral. How nervous and shy Elio became, when anyone mentioned Christmas, and mass at the Cathedral. She felt closer to him because she could notice something like that about him, a place where he was vulnerable. They never talked about his religion, but she felt he knew that she didn’t think it really made him any different. 

“Marzia!” 

Her back stiffened and her skin felt sensitive when she heard her mother’s voice. Her mother was coming towards she and Chiara, holding shopping bags. Perhaps she had just left work, picked up some things for dinner, and was walking home when she saw them.

“Marzia!” her mother said again. “Wait! Where are you going?”

“We’re just walking,” Marzia said, more impatiently than she had intended.  
“Are you going to that woman’s house?” her mother said, frowning with concern.

Chiara looked to Marzia for an explanation or a cue. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Marzia said. 

“You’ve been going over to where that whore and those homosexuals live!” her mother said frantically. “I’ve seen you! Someone else is going to notice!”

“Calm down!” Marzia said.

“Marzia, please! People are going to start to talk,” her mother said. “This has gone on far enough. When your grandmother was alive…it was hard to say no to her. She confused me, with all that talk of witches, and that you were special somehow and needed more than I could give you. She was just a meddling old woman. I let this all get out of hand.”

“Nona saw who I really am. I can’t go with you. What would be in it for me?” Marzia said. “You can give me nothing.”

Her mother looked shocked. “Marzia….you belong at home. I told you, I’m sorry I let all of that ridiculous peasant talk confuse me.”

“It’s not Nona that confused you,” Marzia said, thinking of her stepfather.  
She knew girls whose stepfathers, or even their own fathers, were real creeps. It wasn’t so simple with her mother’s husband. He just didn’t want to share his wife. He was possessive to the point that even sharing her with her children felt inappropriate and intolerable to him. He didn’t desire Marzia inappropriately, which was a mercy, but he wanted her gone. For her part, as she came closer to her transformation, she had come very close to killing him. Fantasies of rage danced in a crimson haze in her mind, and became so vivid they were calculated rather than heated. When would she kill him? How would she get rid of the remains? It’s not that she hated him, its just that his violence roused her own in response, and wound up her wolf instincts to a peak, leaving her constantly poised for aggression. But animals don’t strike to show who’s boss-they devour. They profit from their rage by eating what they have killed. She could never go back to her mother’s house. She knew in her heart she would kill her mother’s husband if she ever returned. Only with the Viscontis could she be a wolf. Only with them could she be human. 

Loving Elio had given her back her human heart. She loved his music, she loved the silly, dancing, awkward way he moved. His hair, his eyes, his voice, she loved that he loved her. And it had made her gentle once again, a happy girl. For the first time, she felt that he had not just left but abandoned her. Her mother called her name, and she turned away, walking towards Fernando’s bookstore. It was a good thing she knew the way so well-the streets of the village were blurred by her tears. She was determined not to stumble as she walked towards the sound of the Roma’s music. A young girl played the violin. Marzia remembered seeing her during the Carnevale, too. How things had changed in a month! Soon Lent would be over, and the villagers would crowd the streets to see the yearly procession of the porcelain Virgin on Easter. All the crowds, all the flowers…they were sights that she looked forward to, but how the yearly reminder of the death of Christ had made Elio outwardly stoic and inwardly awkward that someone would look at him differently. Catholic imagery was everywhere, and many were cold to the sight of Christ rendered in varnished wood or porcelain, his wounds painted vivid red like the stigmata of a saint that never healed. It was different for Elio; he never felt that he fit in. She wanted to take care of him, and so she had fallen in love with him. Was it a kind of pity? No, she thought of it more as the most profound tenderness she could experience towards another human being, just short of what a mother may feel. It felt unselfish, and very real.  
She pushed open the door of the bookstore. She wished she could live there. Caro was sitting on a stool before the bar of the café, but there was no one on the other side making a drink.

“You’re out of bed,” she said.

“I feel better,” he said.

She smiled. That was very good news. Marzia felt confused, sad, and a little overheated. But, at least she had done some good, and Genaro was feeling all right.

“Are you sure that book is appropriate for kids?" Jen asked. "Isn't it scary?"

Oliver paused. He had been reading Frankenstein to Vimini. 

"I asked him to read it," Vimini protested. She sat on the couch, hugging her knees, and a blanket around her arms like a shawl. She had a slight fever. As the full moon approached, Isaac was more fatigued, too, but he and Elio still had long and enthusiastic talks about music. Elio borrowed Isaac's guitar, and wowed them all with his versatility-Rossini, Paganini, or the Beatles, he could play it, but bashfully attributed it all to having so much time alone to practice after leaving school. 

"Maybe all junior high dropouts redirect their talents elsewhere," he'd once quipped. 

"Elio, don't put yourself down," Mounir had said patiently.  
Isaac chimed in, "All our lives were interrupted by this thing. We're making the best of it. You're extremely talented, Elio. And that should bring you joy. Don’t fight your joy. "

His smile returned, and Oliver was almost jealous that he hadn't been the one to make everything better.  
Otherwise, their days at the farmhouse and the cottage were placid. He looked down at the passage in his paperback Frankenstein he'd been about to read to Vimini before Jen interrupted out of concern:  
"The blue lake, and snow-clad mountains, they never change-and I think our placid home and our contented hearts are regulated by the same immutable laws."

But everything changed, even if it was imperceptibly- a few inches to the right or left, inches lost to the wind and the rain's weathering. Oliver was anxious about the small germs of change hidden in the sweet sameness of talking about literature with Mounir, and Isaac's music, walks around the lake or in the forest with Vimini and reading to her when she was feeling tired, and Elio-sleeping beside him, waking to him, the pleasure of living beside this beautiful person he knew he scarcely knew but loved deeply and fiercely. When would it all fall apart? 

"I think you should rest, Maria," Jen said. 

Vimini scowled, at the use of her first name and at being told what to do. However, she was enough of a little girl still to obey any adult who asked nicely enough, and so she lay down fully and pulled the blanket over herself. Oliver adjusted the blanket, tucking her in. If she had been his actual little sister, Abbey, he would have dared a kiss on the top of her head, but Vimini was such a dignified little thing. He wouldn't want to offend her.  
"She's such a great kid," Jen said, as they drifted to the dining room. A vase filled with fresh lavender sat on the wooden table, throwing their sweet, soapy scent in the room, along with the earthier smell of wet stems. 

"She reminds me of Abby. A little bit more serious, but still a kid. She still likes Harry Potter, and wonders what Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans would taste like," Oliver said. 

"Um, isn't there a booger flavored one? I think I remember that right. Eww!" Jen said.  
"But I get it- she's innocent."

"She is. I wonder how all this happened to her?" Oliver said. 

Jen frowned, as if she knew something but didn't want to get into it. Vimini cried out in distress, and they both rushed to her.  
Oliver held her and shushed her as, redfaced and crying, she repeatedly, helplessly murmured, "Leave me alone."  
Yet her tone lacked urgency- she spoke at the pace of dreams, which always seem like pre- recorded footage rather than crises. She also held onto him tightly. 

"I told you that book was too scary," Jen said. 

"I think there's more to it than that," Oliver said. 

"I want to go home," she whimpered, Vimini, sounding younger than 12. 

Oliver suspended all his worry and horror. Vimini needed him to be calm and strong. He held her, but not so tightly or closely that it would alarm her. Mounir came in, questions in his warm, dark eyes, but Oliver wordlessly indicated that they would talk later.  
Vimini blinked properly awake, and Oliver patted her back.

"I'm sorry," she said. 

"Don't be. I have bad dreams too, sometimes. They can't hurt you," he said. 

"I know," she said. Jen squeezed her hand, then said, "I'm going to go get Elio."

Elio was reading The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov, while sitting under a tree. He still regretted having an outburst of regret the day before. He read a lot, and in some ways had learned more than if he had remained a typical schoolkid in Milan. But he still felt like he had missed out in something. He sat under a tree, the fresh smell of the muddy yard around Casa Allegra flooding his senses with every breath, and the mountains ringing the horizon. They had been the scenes of so many dramatic moments and odes to nature in the work of the Romantics, of Victor Frankenstein's early life and honeymoon, of Manfred the sorcerer's despair, of Julian and Maddalo's discussions of love and madness. He was really here, nestled in the same green valleys and icy mountains that had called to so many as refuge. Hidden waterfalls crashed, and the flowers of secret meadows swayed. It was, as Mary Shelley had written, a divine spring- Elio could feel life in the air and in the soil, palpable and almost giddy, like new love. This was the energy in all things that Koko Masanori had taught he and the other healers about, and he felt it fill him like the vibrations of music.  
Jen approached, and told him that he was needed in the farmhouse.  
He followed her back to Casa Allegra, and found Vimini looking distressed curled up in Oliver’s arms. Elio held his arms open, and she unwound from Oliver, sat up and he applied his hands to the middle of her back and the center of her stomach. The energy began to flow between them. Elio closed his eyes, listening to Vimini’s energy. He felt like he was underwater. Then, a picture began to become clear in his mind’s eye. It was as vivid as a dream. He was in a lavish baroque bedroom, and Vimini was standing on a stool while a woman altered a dress around her. A man and a woman were watching, and talking in the hushed and serious tones of adults who don’t really think what they are saying will be heard or understood by any children present, but want to make sure. 

“Her feet are never to touch the ground,” the woman said, and Elio felt a cold wave of despair and fear. Or, perhaps Vimini had felt this at that moment and he was feeling it as she remembered it. Out the window he could see a mock village like the one Marie Antoinette had built at Versailles. Inside was trimmed in gold, outside was green and manicured. Where could this be? It was like no place Elio had ever seen.

The vision disappeared. He could tell by the warmth between his hands and Vimini’s body, a fuzzy heat like static cling, that she was beginning to feel calmer and stronger. The healing energy was retreating, pulling away, returning to him. 

“Thank you, Elio,” she said. “Every moon is different.”

“You should take a nap before dinner,” Jen said. Vimini loved Jen, and let her lead her around like a younger child simply because it made them both happy, to care for and be cared for.  
“Elio, you’re sweating,” Oliver said, and began rubbing his shoulders.

“Where does Vimini come from?” Elio asked. “I saw some strange things in her energy.”

“You know, she likes to play the woman of mystery,” Oliver said with a bemused smirk.

“I think she might really have her reasons,” Elio said. His head hurt, and he felt a little drained. He wanted to go back outside.

Mounir returned, with a glass of water for Elio. Oliver rubbed Elio’s back as he drank. 

“Mounir, what can you tell us about Vimini?” Oliver asked. “Elio’s concerned for her.”

“She wasn’t bitten, like Isaac and Oliver and myself. She doesn’t want to be a werewolf. I think she is concerned that if she transforms, her coven will find her. They are barbaric people, who thought she was some kind of goddess but treated her as a pawn, an object, a symbol,” Mounir said.

“Malandante?” Oliver asked.

“Not necessarily. I’ve heard of some covens worshipping a young girl as a living embodiment of the moon goddess, but when I was in Vimini’s memories I felt such fear of the people around her,” Elio said.

“What does this worship entail, exactly?” Oliver asked.

“I don’t know the details. This is all kind of new for me. There has been so much to learn about our coven, our language, and our rituals. Of course, I’m kind of the sore thumb when my aunt talks to us about these things. Its usually for girls,” Elio said.

“Oh? Many societies think of magic as a female art. But, there are shamans, too,” Mounir said.

“So, basically these covens seclude a young girl because they think she’s divine. No wonder she’s read so much for a kid her age. We talked about Pasternak’s assimilationist views in Doctor Zhivago yesterday!” Oliver marveled.

“I found them jarring, distracting, and out of step with the scope of the narrative,” Elio said.

“But it couldn’t all have been Russian literature and staring out the window. Why would she be afraid?” Oliver said.

“Because she’s a child, and there was no one to care for her. Only people who were keeping the world from her. Why wouldn’t she be afraid of her jailers?” Mounir said.

Oliver and Elio let this sink in. Oliver thought of the Hunters at Castel Wulfstan. They had cared for him, but he had felt trapped sometimes. Elio thought of the villa, the palazzo, and his aunt. He had pined for his old life during his time in her care, and he hoped he hadn’t complicated things by breaking free, now. He was an adult, after all. Hopefully Zelenia understood. Vimini’s case was different. Elio remembered her fear and sadness as his own, now, and he hated to think of her feeling that way or having any reason to.

Eventually, Isaac and Vimini woke. They seemed over the worst of it. Mounir and Oliver made dinner and dessert, and after dinner Oliver, Jen, and Mounir gave requests and Isaac and Elio played music. There was no TV. No one at Casa Allegra was able to keep up with the news, which contributed greatly to the calm the Healers believed was essential to their recovery.  
When it grew late, Elio and Oliver walked under the stars back to the cottage.

“You’re amazing. Vimini seemed so strong and happy at dinner. You healed her,” Oliver said, as they got ready for bed.

“But there is still something in her past that hurts. Memories can hurt so badly,” Elio said.

Oliver slipped off his sweater, so that he was only in his undershirt. 

“Negative experiences create more intense memories than happy experiences. I guess it’s how early man was able to remember ‘Oh, yeah, that plant was poisonous, and that den of sabre toothed tigers was right around the corner, I better not stop there.’ If we remember what could hurt us, we can avoid it, and we can survive,” Oliver said.  
“But, our brain goes overboard in protecting us and it feels like its tormenting us. You work with the thoughts as they come up.”

“You’re right. I just hate that someone as sweet and pure as her has to suffer. I wish I could remember the faces of the people in the dream. I just remember feeling trapped,” Elio said.

“Have you ever felt trapped like that, before?” Oliver said. He sat on the bed, behind Elio, and hugged him from behind, around his shoulders.

“Maybe sometimes I felt stuck at the villa. But, mostly, I felt stuck being like this. Transforming is exhilarating, it makes me so happy in the moment. But, its different than what my life was before. Oh, shit, I shouldn’t talk about this with you, I mean, how do I sound after what happened to you?” Elio sputtered.

“Chill,” Oliver laughed. “This isn’t Club Med. We’re all here because we’re werewolves. You don’t have to apologize. I hate it when people play Competing Tragedies, don’t you? I wouldn’t do that to you, Elio.”

“Can you imagine? ‘My trauma is bigger than your’s, let’s measure them’,” Elio said.  
Oliver laughed. “Exactly. We need to understand each other. I think only we can understand each other. What will we do when the moon is full?”

“I wish we could run deep in the mountains, hidden from everyone, everyone but the moon and the stars,” Elio said.

Oliver kissed his neck. Elio closed his eyes, feeling alive and mindlessly happy as his body broke out into hot shivers. He reached for a book on the nightstand.

“Do you remember when you were at the Fortress and I was at the Villa? You spoke to me, in my thoughts, and sent me that Shelley poem? ‘Rosalind and Helen’?” Elio said.

“And you gave me your music,” Oliver said, continuing to kiss the nape of Elio’s neck, where his curls left off to the skin just above his back. 

“Read to me. Read me these poems. If we ever get separated again, I want you to send me these poems when I’m asleep and dreaming, when I wake up, when I am alone with myself. Please?” Elio said.

Oliver accepted the book, Coleman Barks’ The Essential Rumi. He guessed that it was a gift or loan from Isaac. He was mildly jealous of how Elio loved Isaac’s knowledge of music, his easy going confidence, and his stories of backpacking in Thailand before the beaches were spoiled by party monsters littering them with red cups and condoms. Oliver knew he didn’t have such a life to give Elio. He had been shackled by fear before they met.

“Elio, I’m never going to leave you,” Oliver said.

Elio smiled, and warmth shone from his emerald green eyes. Oliver lay beside him, and read him Rumi until they both fell asleep.


	26. Chapter 26

"Ta- da!" Jen said, gesturing to the cheese on the wooden table before her.   
Molded into the rind were delicate wildflowers she and Vimini had picked from the meadows on the hillsides surrounding Casa Allegra. Such chores punctuated all their days: caring for the animals (some sheep and goats that had an air of being left behind by whatever family had owned the farm before it became a werewolf halfway house), preparing meals, looking for ways to lighten the farmhouse's atmosphere. Mounir painted, Vimini made geometrically improvisational snowflakes out of spare paper and scissors, and Isaac and Elio filled the house with music. And meals- they all pitched in. Oliver, who had once worked for a catering service, was especially good at this.  
"Quite an achievement, Jen," Oliver said.

"I just wish I could post a picture of this, y'know?" She said.

"Or how does the whole world know it happened, right?" Oliver said.

Jen grimaced.

"I know it must be frustrating," Isaac said. "When you've gotten farther in your recovery, you'll be able to contact your family."

"Have you been in contact with your's?" Oliver said.

"No, not yet," Isaac said. "But its for the best. Sarah and her boys don't need to see me like this."

"Isaac's sister. She has two sons. We're their favorite uncles," Mounir said.

"Just you-he overdoes it with the birthday money," Isaac said.

Elio laughed. He loved their easy rapport with each other.

"I'm sure you'll see them again," Elio said.

"Sure," Oliver said with skepticism and a sardonic catch. "I'm sure thats what they promised him, anyway."

"You don't believe that we'll be able to see our families again one day?" Jen said, frowning with earnest concern.

"I just think we've been promised a lot. You'll be able to make contact with your family, you'll be able to leave the farm, this has been arranged, and that, its all taken care of…oh, but, when we've reached a plateau in our recovery," he said with bitter sarcasm.

"You don't believe it?" Jen repeated.

"Barbara was released. She got better," Vimini pointed out.

"Is that what you were told?" Oliver said.  
Elio looked at Oliver. The air around him felt tense, and something about his eyes had a feverish sheen. Elio put his hand on Oliver's arm. Isaac looked concerned. This paranoia just didn't sound like Oliver. It must be a side effect of his meds, which were suppressing all his instincts to transform.

"Why would the Healers lie to us?" Jen said. Her culinary efforts forgotten, she now looked outraged and plaintive, desperate for someone to reassure her.

"Oliver, let’s go to the cottage," Elio said.   
Oliver looked annoyed when he turned to him, but that soon evaporated to a bewildered look that made Elio even more concerned.

"Maybe some fresh air will help," Isaac said.

"Elio, we'll talk later," Vimini said, as if continuing a conversation that they had been having, although there wasn't one. This must have to do with the strange montage of memories he had seen in her aura when he healed her.  
Elio and Oliver walked out of the farmhouse, across the muddy yard to the cottage  
Oliver seemed relieved to be back in the private little space the Hunters-or, rather, the Healers- had provided for them.  
"Can you tell me what's going on?" Elio said.

"I don't know! I don't know where all that came from. Something about being here just doesn't feel right," he said.

"I think maybe Dr. Wheatley should have a look at you," Elio said. There was a landline phone on a small wooden stool, plugged into the wall, but it could only call the Castel. Elio picked up the receiver, but Oliver grabbed his wrist and said, frantically, "No!"

Elio wasn't frightened, but startled.

"Oliver," he said, looking into his eyes, trying to hold his gaze and somehow wordlessly impart to him to be calm, "You're agitated, breathing heavily, and your eyes are…distracted. Unfocused. I think you're having a reaction to your meds. Please? This is more than I can handle on my own."

"Why are you so sure you can trust them? What do these meds really do? Why won't they let us go?" He said.

"You didn't feel this way before," Elio said.   
He wanted to put his hands to his ears and say, "No, no, no." They had been happy, now it was all melting before his eyes like a painting doused with acid. Oliver was sliding into the feral dementia that meant the lycanthropy virus was winning. Or, these meds were as ineffective as the last ones, and he would be secluded in the Castel while the doctors went back to the drawing board. Either way, gone were Mounir's pleasant, steadying presence, Vimini's precocius discussions of literature and grave sweetness, Jen's benign brattiness and enthusiasm for simple joys, and Isaac's world weary kindness and love for music. Elio loved them, and loved their life of farm chores, meals, household tasks, and simply being in each other's presence.  
And Oliver….what would become of Oliver?

"Did he say that you couldn't trust the Hunters?" Elio asked. In for a penny, in for a pound. Why not bring up Willem? He suspected that he was behind this.

"Willem has nothing to do with this," Oliver said.

Of that, Elio was skeptical.

"I would know if he was in my head," Oliver added.

Elio doubted that, but he didn't want to fight so he said nothing.

Oliver sat on the couch. His shoulders sank, and all the agitation turned to exhaustion.  
"This is too much for you. You deserve more than this," Oliver said.

"What more is there? This is us," Elio said.

"Very gallant. But you left your whole life behind to come here with me. Me, a guy you've known for about a month, who's brought nothing but trouble to your life," Oliver said.

Elio sat beside him.

"Maybe it’s only been a month. But that's thirty days of not feeling scared and useless. I just feel alive with you. Here, now. Falling in love with you woke me up. I don't want to go back into the long sleep I lived in, Oliver. Even Marzia couldn't get me out of it, as much as she tried. I cared for her, but, still, something in me slept," Elio said.

"Do you know what a bashert is?" Oliver asked.

Elio thrilled at Oliver's voice wrapped around the desert lilt of Hebrew, even if it was just one word. Two syllables, buoyed on a rhythmical, softly curved pronunciation. Like the crest of a sand dune. It was who they were. Their tribe. It meant so much to him.

But, he felt shy to answer. "The person made for you. Your soulmate," he said, and felt that he was stumbling.

"Then why do I feel like you should go back to your life? You should have a life. But I know that we're supposed to know each other," Oliver said.

"Your body is adjusting to a lot of changes," Elio said. "Your senses are overloaded. But, beneath it all, you still know what you know. Go with that."

Oliver nodded. He closed his eyes, as if listening so something within himself.

"If you want to transform, you should. Run in the mountains, for me? Look up at the moon, and just take it all in, breathe in the starlight?" Oliver asked, stroking Elio's wrist lovingly.

"I'll be right here," Elio said. "I'll be with you. With my bashert."

Oliver smiled, but then looked troubled. "Its different for you. You're healthy. You should get to be who you are," he said.

Elio kissed him, but it was a brief, affectionate kiss. "Being human is apart of who I am, too. I want to stay with you. If I need to transform, I will, but I think I can control it. If not, I won't go far. I want to be with you," Elio said.

Oliver took his hand, and gave it a loving squeeze.

"Barbara used to live here. In our cottage. Mounir told me. Do you think she was really cured?" Oliver asked.

"She wouldn't have been able to go back to Canada, otherwise," Elio said.  
"Right," Oliver said.  
Since there was no television, no radio, web, or cell phones, they read more Rumi to each other and discussed the poems. What did Rumi mean by intoxi ation, in poems that alluded to wine and taverns? The dizziness of self realization, the intensity of finding divinity in the beauty of the world, or a more intimate penetration of the soul, a place beyond personality? Was the 'tavern' where this wine was drunk the world, the body, or the soul? Elio felt so lucky, to be talking this all out with someone he adored, under a somewhat scratchy but otherwise cozy blanket, in front of a fire.  
"You're amazing," Oliver marvelled. "You ask really deep questions."

"I think the poems ask all the questions," Elio said. "They ask them of us, and ask us to ask the world. Oh, boy- did that make any sense?"

"It did to me," Oliver said. "I guess we're both experiencing the Rumi Effect".

"Must be the wine," Elio said.

Oliver opined that he wished they had actual wine. They laughed as Elio thought of the bottle of mavrodaphne he had been hesitant to bring to bed at the Palazzo, because its name contained that of Oliver's ex-girlfriend. That was the penultimate day of Carnevale, and it seemed much longer ago. Was it Holy Week in the village, with all its Catholic fanfare of costumed players in processional pageants, flowers, singing young people, and polished porcelain idols? Had his parents celebrated Pesach without him, their son? Was he still alive to them?  
No use sweating at these things, because he couldn't find out, anyway. One moon had come, another was slowly revealing itself, and time was an ocean behind him, and he was a sea captain's wife, not bound for sea but bound to it, it was perpetually behind him. The warmth of Oliver and the fire grounded him, kept him present, and now that Oliver was calm again he was content. They kissed. The fire in the fireplace's warmth touched his face and penetrated his sweater, and now he had the buoyant internal warmth of kissing Oliver. Oliver was tender but ardent, as if apologizing for his behavior earlier with a sweet, careful kiss.  
Elio maneuvered onto Oliver's lap. Oliver wrapped his arms around Elio, and broke their kiss to kiss his neck, moving the collar of his sweater to kiss his collarbone. Elio closed his eyes. The skin was the field of his pleasure, but still his soul seemed to swell past the confines of his skin and swell with over-heightened feeling, pure feeling.

"You should be at college. You should be with your friends," Oliver murmured.

"No guilt," Elio said. "Not here."

He kissed Oliver, and felt the evaporation of some resolve in his lover, a change in how he held him, how he kissed him, his timidity given way to a more forceful, but appreciative touch. His hands caressed Elio beneath his sweater, then Oliver began to hurriedly undress him. This was hunger. This was the moon. The agitation, earlier, his bewilderment, and now this, it was all the moon and the waves within his body. Elio felt like Oliver was reaching out to him, to calm the storm.  
Oliver undressed, too, and Elio looked at the firelight on his skin, dusting his auburn body hair with gold. What was he doing here? Where would this go? For a minute Oliver looked hyperreal, dream vivid, and Elio wondered if it was all a dream. He touched Oliver everywhere, and he allowed Elio's hands all they sought. The sensitive nipples hiding in their nests of red- gold hair, his soft belly and all its hair, his scrotum and its sensitive underside, his vulnerable anus, his hard cock. They kissed, and Elio touched him as if confirming that he was real.  
Oliver bit him. Elio tensed, and willed the pain into pleasure, a stabbing, shivering pleasure that made him feel he was going to start shaking if Oliver didn't hold him close. He felt the pain and the pleasure shuddering up his spine, and the swoon of being drank from around his eyes and above his head.  
Oliver pulled away, and began licking Elio's wound.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Elio touched his face, cradled his jaw in his palm and coaxed him to look into his eyes.

"Don't be," Elio said. "Its instinct. I want to drink you, too, but….your meds."

"I know," Oliver said. "I love you, Elio."

"I love you, Oliver," he said.

But when would they really know each other? Elio wondered. He knew that he felt drawn to Oliver, safe and whole in his presence, and loved sharing things like poetry and beauty with him. Was that a life? Enough to be their life?  
They made love, Oliver beneath him, his face stricken with primal joy as he came. Elio loved falling asleep on Oliver's chest, after the ecstasy, swept away by peace. Oliver drifted off first, sated and content, the edginess from earlier gone. Elio dreamed. The forests of his dreams seemed so real he could feel the moonlight on his neck, and smell the snow laden air. In this dream forest, he ran, and felt free. He came to a meadow, a basin of wulfenia flowers, and found he was human again. In the middle of the meadow was Vimini in a little sweater over her white nightgown.

"Vimini? What are you doing here?" Elio asked.

"I had to talk to you. I know the things you saw must have confused you," she said.

"Yes, but I know you like your privacy," he said. It was amazing, how they all treated her like a little adult. Something about her aura demanded it. But, she looked young and vulnerable in the moonlight. Elio felt a concern for her he had never experienced, given that he was an only child. Suddenly, he wanted to protect her, from all the world.

"Elio," she said, "I want to tell you my story."


	27. Chapter 27

Oliver slept fitfully, feeling feverish and slightly achy. He woke up feeling sorry. He knew his outburst at the farmhouse had ruined the cozy domestic moment, and concerned Elio. He wasn’t like Elio, who made friends with the other houseguests so easily: playing music with Isaac, discussing literature with Mounir, helping Vimini and Jen with the animals and the cooking. He looked over at Elio, beside him in bed.  
Elio was barely breathing. Oliver was afraid to touch him, but he wanted to shake him back to life. He called Elio by his name, again and again, and it felt more and more useless each time.

Finally, Elio’s green eyes blinked open, and they reflected the moonlight spilling onto their bed from the window.

“Stop shouting,” Elio said.

“What happened? Where were you?” Oliver said.

“I was with Vimini,” Elio said.

“Outside of your body,” Oliver deduced. Just like when Elio had astral projected to visit him at Castel Wulfstan.

“She was telling me about her coven. I saw a vision, of her memories, when she woke from that nightmare and I healed her. I saw her being kept in seclusion, like an infanta of Spain, in the old days. And a man and a woman, handlers of some sort, were discussing…her feet,” Elio said.

“Her feet?” Oliver asked.

Being an Anthro major, his mind ran to the various ways that societies throughout history have kept women secluded by somehow physically disabling them, and he thought of foot binding.

“Outside of her room, she had to be carried everywhere. Her coven, they believed that she was an embodiment of the Goddess. The same goddess that we are taught to love in our coven. But, for Vimini, it was different. When she grew up, she had to marry the god,” Elio said

“The god?” Elio asked.

“The god of the grove, of the forest. The Beast, for whom we hold the carnevale,” Elio said.

The myth that brought them together, Oliver thought.

“What does marrying a god entail?” Oliver asked, but, again, his education gave him some clues. He wasn’t surprised when Elio said,

“A sacrifice.”

“But, she’s just a kid!” Oliver said.

“It is their custom,” Elio said. “You pulled me from the plain-I have to check on her. Come with me?”

Oliver nodded, and grabbed his jacket. The moon was full. They were all medicated to resist her. She had no sway over their bodies, the medicine was too strong. Still, he felt compelled to gaze up at her, round and soft gold, as they crossed the muddy yard. Elio far outpaced him, in a hurry as he was to check on Vimini. Oliver felt stupid-he had pulled Elio out of the state in which the benandante spoke to one another in dreams. When would he learn to navigate the wonders around him? He felt so clumsy and gauche.

When they arrived, Vimini was sitting placidly at the piano playing, appropriately, the Moonlight Sonata, the languid First Movement.

“I’m fine,” she said. “But you did leave in such a hurry. It was rude.”

“Forgive me,” Elio said bemusedly. Her grave little voice made everything she said unintentionally funny.

“It was my fault,” Oliver said.

“Oh, Oliver-everything isn’t your fault,” she said.

“How did you escape them?” he asked.

“That is a very tiring story. Sometimes I think, I must go back to them. On nights such as this, I can feel their minds searching for me, urging me to come back to our village, and fulfill my role as the vessel of the goddess, who must couple with the beast before all the worshippers gathered in the grove. And if she bleeds, it means only that the vessel is empty. If she dies, it means only that the goddess has moved on, and the new avatar of her soul must be found,” Vimini said. “People visited me, asked for my blessing, and gave me gifts. They thought I was beautiful, and wise. But there was a goddess before me. No one would tell me what happened to her. I had to piece it together from their thoughts, from their memories.”

She played the piano, the music spilling from her fingers like moonlight, and her visions filled Elio and Oliver’s mind. They saw a procession of silhouetted figures bearing candles, escorting a woman in a white dress which burned like a flame against the night into the embrace of a forest. There, the Beast awaited, not a village banker or baker dressed up in a costume, but the real thing. The hulking, hairy creature that Oliver had seen Elio become at the Palazzo, that he had become at the Castel. It bounded toward her, the woman in white, gathered her in its arms, and drank her blood as if she were fruit to be drained of its nectar until it is empty skin.

“Why would you go back, if you believe that is meant to be your fate?” Elio said.

“So it won’t happen to somebody else!” she said, for once sounding like a child, a touch petulant.

“It would, when your time as the goddess is over,” Oliver said.

“Not for years! Doesn’t that buy them time, whoever it is? This won’t happen until I’m a woman. So, this other, the next me, in this way can’t I give her a whole childhood? Five years, six, something? Some kind of time?” Vimini said.

“That isn’t how it works. You can’t manipulate a system in which you’re a pawn,” Oliver said.

“I’m afraid they’ll take me back. How can I be afraid, and want it to happen all at the same time?” She said.

Oliver sat beside her at the piano. He gently put his hands over her’s and she stopped playing.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to protect someone else. But, I know what it’s like to deny yourself freedom because all you can think of is someone else’s happiness. Don’t go back. Tell the Hunters everything you can about your coven. Your story can help the person you want to protect,” Oliver said.

“Sad people are always so wise. And, you know, you are quite sad,” Vimini said.

Oliver laughed. “If that’s the price of wisdom, it’s okay.”

“Thank you for telling us what was on your mind. We didn’t worship the goddess that way, where I am from,” Elio said.

“Then I would love to be from where you are from, Elio,” Vimini said.

“It’s beautiful. But, in some ways, I felt like I was in a sort of soft prison, too. I had to leave Milan when it became clear that I was a Benandante. I felt like my life was interrupted. I know I’m 18 now, and I could leave the village if I wanted to….but I didn’t feel free,” Elio said.

“You understand,” she said. “But, your life wasn’t interrupted, Elio. You became what you are, what you were meant to be. So did you, Oliver.”

“It was different for me, remember?” he said.

“I think there is a reason behind all things. A symmetry. A design, just waiting to be seen, like the connections between stars in a constellation,” she said. Before Elio and Oliver had time to marvel at her juvenile solemnity, an alarm system whose existence Oliver had not suspected began to sound, like a smoke alarm. The telephone buzzed. Vimini answered.

“Kenji?” she said, and listened. She nodded very slowly.

“What’s going on?” Oliver asked.

“The fortress is being attacked,” she said. “The Malandante. They came through the tunnels.”  
“Why didn’t we feel them?” Elio asked.

She had no answer.

“What do the Hunters want us to do?” Oliver asked.

“Stay here, and stay calm,” she said.  
Jen bounded down the stairs.

“Ollie….” She said.

“Stay calm,” he told Jen, but then he noticed her eyes.

She looked distracted, ill, in a stupor. Her gaze turned away from him and towards the door. She opened it and went outside, walking towards the moon, towards the castel, towards Willem, her master and Oliver’s. He ran after her.


	28. Chapter 28

Elio watched, helplessly, as Oliver’s and Jen’s forms disappeared into the night. The snow glittered beneath the full moon’s milky light, and the mountains loomed in the background. Usually the mountains made him feel safe. Now, he felt trapped. For the first time since running away from the villa, he felt overwhelmed and alone.

“You must stop them,” Vimini said.

“No. You, first. I have to get you to Casa Allegra,” Elio said.

They hurried to the farmhouse. A rectangle of golden light was shed on the frosted earth as Mounir threw the door open for them.

“The Malandante…” Elio began to explain.

“We know,” Mounir said, and bundled Vimini up in a blanket.

“Come on,” Isaac said, and opened a hatch on the floor to a cellar.

Elio looked into the mouth of the cellar, felt the chill of the space as if the earthen walls were breathing. But, he thought of how Willem and the others had been able to escape the dungeons of the fortress using the tunnels that led back to their home in the heart of the mountain. The earth didn’t feel like their friend, but the ally of the Malandante. For five years, he’d lived with the knowledge that they were everywhere, wherever they chose to be, even his thoughts.

“Stay safe,” he told Vimini. “I have to find Oliver, and Jen.”

“Jennifer?” Isaac said, as if just realizing that she was gone.

“Willem, her master, is influencing her, and she ran off. Oliver tried to stop her,” Elio explained. “I have to go.”

Elio ran back out into the moonlit night. All night, he had resisted the moon’s call, although he could feel the soft, penetrating light coaxing his cells to transform. He surrendered, and transformed, and bounded into the trees.

Oliver’s teeth ached from the cold, and his eyes watered. It didn’t feel like spring. Moonlight dappled the frost on the ground, lighting Oliver’s way through the trees. He had to find Jen-she was Daphne’s best friend. He realized now that even though he hadn’t trusted her when she first showed up at Casa Allegra, having her around was comforting. Her presence was a touch of his old life inside this new existence.

The trees trembled, the ice upon their boughs shuddered. Oliver found Jen, naked, her blonde hair splayed on the frostkissed forest floor, her eyes closed and her face tense with arousal as she touched herself.

“Jen…” Oliver said. “You have to come back to the farmhouse with me.”

“I tried, Ollie. I tried to be good. It’s all I ever tried to do,” she said. “I can’t do it anymore.”

He wasn’t aroused by the sight, in a sexual sense, but there was something about her that he couldn’t look away from. She was like a fairy of Avalon appearing to a lost knight. But, he was no knight. He, like Jen, had tried so hard to do what he thought was the right thing. He lost that battle when he met Willem. He knew what Jen was feeling, now. It had felt so good to let go, and embrace Willem in the waterfall.

“I was always afraid to do this. I thought it was wrong,” Jen said. “I felt like….someone would know…if they looked at me. I’m bad, aren’t I?”

“No, Jen, you’re not bad,” Ollie whispered.   
He should move, he should leave, get her to leave, somehow. But, he was spellbound by the sight of the forest shuddering around Jen’s naked form as she pleasured herself.

The trees shook around a penetrating, dark form, and parted for the hulking shoulders of a Beast. It was like the ritual Vimini had run from, that she had shown Oliver and Elio in her vision. Dan. Somehow, Oliver knew it was him. He gathered Jen into his arms, and she splayed her legs around him, welcoming him into her body.  
Oliver looked up at the moon. Was this to be his life? It couldn’t be, he’d taken all the meds that Dr. Gristwood’s and Dr. Wheatley’s teams had given him, and was trying to keep his thoughts clear and focused. His mind was his own, and he knew that he didn’t want this.

He felt lips against his neck. Arms around his waist.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Willem whispered.

“You don’t have to fight anymore,” he said, his breath a cool cloud against Oliver’s skin.   
For a minute, Oliver remembered what it had been like to kiss him in the pool beneath the waterfall. Then, he remembered being bitten by him in the café. He loathed what Willem had done to him. Just when he had found Elio and life finally felt like it was making sense, he’d thrown everything into chaos.

“Let Jen go,” Oliver said.

“Jen came to me,” Willem said. “The moon led her here.”

“You did this! You made all of this happen. This is all your fault,” Oliver said.

“Oh, and you hate me, I suppose,” Willem said.

Oliver felt it, but he couldn’t say it. Why couldn’t he say out loud that he hated Willem? It was as if Willem had an influence over his body itself, that was stronger than all the meds he’d taken not to become what Willem had made him.  
Willem lovingly touched his face. The moonlight was in his gray eyes.

“Don’t resist me, and you’ll never have to suffer again. I don’t want to force you. I want you to come to me,” Willem whispered silkenly.  
Oliver watched Dan and Jen couple. She looked so frail, fleshy, and human, against his bestial muscle and dark fur. His eyes glowed red, and puffs of steam appeared, his breath meeting the cool night, as he grunted.

“What comes to mind?” Willem asked.

The first thing Oliver thought was, ‘Freedom.’   
The second thing he thought was ‘Elio.’ He thought of Elio, when he transformed at the Palazzo, pinned him, scratched his shoulder and lapped at the blood. He had to get back to Elio….

“Yes, you’re right,” Willem said. “We should find him.”

“Elio!”

Elio turned around, towards the sound of wheels rolling over low branches. Kenji Masanori and a female Hunter Elio didn’t know rolled up to him in some kind of Jeep-golf cart hybrid.

“Snappy,” Elio said. “How’s the stereo?”

“Get in!” Kenji said. “What are you doing wandering around? Naked?”

“I’m looking for Oliver. He ran off,” Elio said. “And I’m naked because I transformed. I thought I could sense Oliver’s presence better that way, as a wolf.”

“Did he go towards the Fortress? To join the other Malandante?” asked the woman, who was impressively nonplussed by his nudity.

“No!” Elio insisted heatedly. “He had to find Jen. I think she was being influenced by Willem, but Oliver wasn’t. Kenji, you know how hard Oliver’s been working to resist him.”

“Elio, just get in. We’re going to take you back to the farmhouse, and I want you to stay there with the lycanthropes. You have a responsibility to look after them,” Kenji said.

“But what about Jen and Oliver?” Elio asked, as he got in the Jeep-esque vehicle, and began covering up with spare blankets.

Kenji pointedly said nothing.

“You think they’re compromised. Both of them,” Elio said.

“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore,” Kenji said sternly.

Elio hated that he was right.

“How do things look at the Fortress?” Elio asked.

“I think the Malandante got their message across,” Kenji said grimly.

“What does that mean?” Elio asked, although he knew it was nothing good. Clearly, they had not been pleased that Willem and the others had been prisoners, although they escaped. Still, the Malandante had felt that a retaliatory show of aggression was necessary. Whatever fatalities amongst them resulted from skirmishes with the Hunters would be cause for future retribution fueled insurgency.

“Are Dr. Wheatley and Dr. Gristwood okay?” Elio asked. “And what about Ko Ko?”

“They’re fine. But, busy,” Kenji said. Elio could tell that he would rather not talk.  
They reached the farmhouse, and Elio noticed that the lights were on in the cottage that he shared with Oliver. As the vehicle stopped, Elio bounded towards the cottage, wrapped ridiculously as he was in an improvisation of blankets.

“Wait a minute!” Kenji snapped.

“Oliver must have found Jen and brought her back to the cottage,” Elio said.

“Don’t go in there alone,” Kenji said.

“I’ll cover him. You go ahead to the Casa Allegra subjects. They need an update,” said the female Hunter.

That sounded like a plan, to Elio, but Kenji had his doubts. Eventually, he nodded, and left them.

Elio and the woman walked towards the cottage.

“Let him go,” she said.

“Excuse me?” Elio said.

“The virus doesn’t have a cure. The Healers can buy him time, but every case is different, and from what I can tell, he’s resistant to a lot of what they’ve tried so far,” she said.

“You don’t understand. Oliver needs me. And, in so many ways, I need him, too. I don’t know if people really complete each other. But, I know there are those that we are destined to meet, and time we are meant to have together. Our time isn’t finished, yet. Nowhere close,” Elio said.

“That’s very romantic. Even noble. But…” she began, and didn’t get to finish.   
A Malandante, transformed, brutish and covered in dark fur, bounded at her, pinned her, and brutally bit into her shoulder. Elio transformed as quickly as he could and tried to fight the Malandante off. He was bigger, and stronger, it wasn’t easy, but she managed to crawl away, bleeding, towards the jeep. She fumblingly searched for her crossbow, and with difficulty loaded it. Elio tried his best to move the Malandante into her range, and miraculously she got the shot, even though her shoulder was hurt. The injured beast exhaled heavily, and his breath was a trail of steam curling towards the stars and the moon.

Elio ran to the cottage. He hoped that he would find Jen and Oliver safe, worried but safe, and waiting for him. Instead, he smelled the sweat of tangled bodies, heard the throaty sighs of two people making love. Elio grabbed some spare clothes, muddy from farm chores and stashed out of sight, out of the front closet, hastily dressed, and proceeded to the bedroom he shared with Oliver.

The first time Elio ever saw Oliver, it was when he and Marzia had snuck away from the villa. Elio was antsy and bored, and he and Marzia had transformed just to feel free. They had seen Oliver in Willem’s arms, just as he was now.

“Elio,” Oliver said remorsefully, leaping to his feet, covering himself with the blanket. Willem didn’t leave the bed. He rested his arm behind his head smugly.

“Oh, Elio. Don’t be upset. And don’t go,” Willem said.

Dark waters flooded Elio’s eyes and ears, and swept him under.

Oliver realized what he had done, how bad things were. He’d made love to Willem, in the bed he shared with Elio, in their home, in their little cottage. He didn’t know what to say for himself, what to say to Elio. The medicine had kept him from transforming, the way that Dan had, but Willem had gotten to him in other ways.

“Elio,” Willem said, whispering his name sensually. Elio’s green eyes darkened. With horror, Oliver realized that Willem was influencing Elio. This was his fault, all Oliver’s fault, and he felt complete despair.

“You have been tortured, trying to make a choice. But, you needn’t choose. He can come with us,” Willem said.

“Leave Elio alone! Don’t do this to him,” Oliver pleaded.

“He could be our cup bearer…” Willem said.

As if on cue, Elio picked up a bottle of wine they had left on the bedside table, and poured some into a glass, and handed it to Willem.

Oliver felt as if he was turning into a pillar of salt. Helpless. He didn’t want to reach out and grab Elio, lest he fatally distress him like a sleep walker.

“No!” he cried out.

“Oh? No? You wouldn’t like that? That’s a shame. I can’t think of any other use for him. You’ll just have to live without him,” Willem said.

“I…can’t. I can’t live without Elio,” Oliver said. His golden sun. The brightest thing in his life. He’d set him free, and Oliver had tried to make him happy. How he had failed.

“Do you think he feels the same?” Willem asked.

If he said no, would Willem release Elio from his mental influence?

But, he couldn’t lie. Elio did love him ,and he refused to tarnish that with lies.

“Yes,” Oliver said.

“He can’t live without you. He shouldn’t have to,” Willem said.

Elio broke the bottle. He held a jagged piece of glass to his throat.

“No!!!” Oliver cried out.

“Come with me, and he can live,” Willem said.

“Elio.”

He woke up to the sound of his name. The female hunter who had led him to the cottage was standing in his and Oliver’s bedroom, as was Kenji. The woman’s injured shoulder was bandaged.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“Hunters are vaccinated against the lycanthropy virus,” Kenji explained.

“It still hurts like a motherfucker,” she said.

“I didn’t get your name,” Elio said.

“Vasquez,” she said.

“Nice shot, Vasquez,” Elio said.

“Thanks for pushing him in my range,” Vasquez said.

Kenji helped Elio up.

“Elio, what’s the last thing you remember?” Kenji asked.

Elio realized that his head hurt. He thought back. He remembered walking in, and finding Oliver making love to Willem. He looked around-he couldn’t explain the broken bottle and the pieces of glass. Where was Oliver? And, for that matter, Willem?

“Oliver left with Willem,” Kenji said.

“What? No! He wouldn’t do that,” Elio murmured, feeling dizzy from the pain in his head.

“He was probably influenced,” Vasquez said.

“Jennifer is gone, too,” Kenji said.

Oliver, gone. Elio absorbed this through his intense physical pain. Of course, Willem had influenced him, and taken him. He had to find him.

“I hope you’re not thinking of running off,” Kenji said.

“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Vasquez said.

“They took my life once. With Oliver, I felt normal again. Whole. Happy. Excited about what new joy life could show me. They took that,” Elio said.

With her good arm, Vasquez reached out and squeezed his hand. Moonlight filled the room, and shown on the broken glass as if it was ice.


	29. Chapter 29

"I want to come with you", Vimini said.

"You should stay put, here, where its safe," Elio said.

It hadn't taken him long, at all, to pack up his few things at the farmhouse. He had left Oliver's things, save for a sky blue button front shirt, and the sweatshirt he had borrowed the last night of the carnevale.

Despite the frosty night, the morning was a bright spring day. At some point, while the Hunters tended their wounds and Elio cleaned the spilt wine and broken glass, wildflowers bloomed in the meadows cradled in the nooks of the mountain. The sunshine was strong and bright, although in the mountains mist crowned heights, snow was falling. For the first time, Elio realized how much time had truly passed. Easter and Passover were over, and a good deal of spring had unfolded. He was returning to the villa, to his coven, for the first time since late winter.

It didn't feel as if he and Oliver had known each other for only such a short time. Looking into his eyes, kissing him, being naked in his arms, it was all so simple and natural, and Elio felt he knew him. He wished he could remember what had happened the night before, abd where Oliver had gone. He felt as if he was on the other end of a telephone, listening to Oliver's silence, waiting for him to speak.

"Elio, I feel that I'm supposed to come with you. I'm not sure why," Vimini said.

"I can't protect you," Elio said.

"Then maybe I'm supposed to protect you," Vimini said.

"What about Isaac and Mounir? They adore you, they'll miss you. I think they always wanted a daughter. Especially a really smart daughter who reads Russian literature," Elio said.

At this, her eyes did darken with misgivings. 

"I love them, too. But, they have each other," she said gently.

"Ah…and Oliver left me, so now I must be a hapless wreck?" Elio said.

"It must be confusing," she said, "not to remember."

"I know that he couldn't have left because he wanted to. Something horrible happened. But, I can't remember, so I can't help find him. I hate being so useless. He said that I was his bashert. That is a Hebrew word. It means…." Elio said.

"Like Plato's Symposium! Your other half. Your soulmate. My coven didn't believe in such things. But, we heard about ones that did. It seems we believed in all the same things, in different ways," Vimini interrupted.

"Yes," Elio said. He squeezed her hand and said, "I'm just glad that the dread we felt in the air wasn't to do with you. If anyone from your coven had come to retrieve their goddess…You know I wouldn't have just let them take you.." Elio said.

"I know. But, you regret you couldn't have stopped Oliver from being taken. Elio, do you think you were influenced? By Oliver's master?" Vimini asked.

He felt cold, remembering being influenced when he was a boy. 

"Yes. Its possible," he said. 

"Then its not your fault. I have to collect my things. Wait for me?" Vimini said.

She left the cottage to go to the farmhouse. Would Isaac and Mounir talk her out of going with him? Maybe she didn't want to stay at Allegra without Jen, whom she had been close to like an older sister. Her abscence would be a reminder of her betrayal. Or, maybe an unexplainable inertia was moving her in a new direction as it had moved Elio to Oliver the week of the carnevale.  
Elio went to Casa Allegra.

"I'm going home," he told Isaac and Mounir.

"Oh, Elio. I wish things had worked out differently, for you and for Ollie," Isaac said.

"Remember what Chekhov said about love," Mounir said.

"Chekhov?" Elio asked.

"Ah, yes. Coincedentally, the story is called "About Love". Wherein he says, 'when you love you must either, in your reasonings about that love, start from what is highest, from what is more important than happiness or unhappiness, sin or virtue in their accepted meaning, or you must   
not reason at all'," Vimini said.

"I think I stopped using reason long ago. There's something about Oliver- I've never hesitated to follow him," Elio said.

"Yeah, but you have to take care of yourself, too. Somewhere between not giving up on the person you love and not throwing yourself away, there's the clarity you need to do whats right for both of you," Isaac said.

Elio hugged them both, and both men had many parting hugs and tearful kisses for Vimini. She had become their daughter, and Elio got the feeling that this separation was temporary. For whatever reason, she felt that Elio was who needed her most.

 

"This will be a safe place for us," Willem said, and took them to an old house by the lake.

It occurred to Oliver that he must be on the other side of the lake, across from Casa Allegra. How many miles was that? On a clear day, the lake looked as wide as an ocean, and the horizon was misty blue where water met sky. You couldn't imagine the other side. The surface of the water was dusted with white stars, and the moon lay in broken pieces like a shattered plate on it's surface. If he was with Elio, he knew what he would be doing- looking at the moon, reading poetry by its stirling light: the spooky, fairy tale- like poems of the Romantics, or the mystical Persians, Rumi and Hafiz. Love seemed to be a species of malicious ghost to the English poets, but to the Sufi holymen love was divine.

"Didn't Byron and Shelley admire the Sufi poets? Or was that the New England Transcendentalists?" Oliver said.

"Both, I think. I believe so. Is this an olive branch?" Willem asked.

Oliver looked at the water. Dark, moonlit, star gilded, the mirror of the sky. Dark sky and dark water met, and the shoulders of the mountains were silhouetted suggestions. Darkness met darkness, and Oliver couldn't see the other side.

"What you did to Elio was beyond cruel," Oliver said.

The trees shuddered. Dan and Jen had wandered off, perhaps to fuck again, or transform, or both. Willem didn't seem concerned. Oliver wished whoever was on the other side of the door of this small lakeside manor would open it.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't have involved him. Do you think I was ever far from you, when you left the hostel? I was always with you. I chose you, and I know you felt that. What did you need him for?" Willem said.

"I just….liked him. I liked him so much I forgot all about all the reasons why I shouldn't," Oliver said.

"It wasn't him. You know that," Willem said.

"He's like a golden sun," Oliver said helplessly.

"We worship the moon. You'll get used to the way the moon changes, and the way we change with it. All the moon asks of us is to be what we are. You know the pain of denying your nature. Why do you want to return to that?" Willem asked.

He didn't have to deny anything to be with Elio, and he started to say that when the door opened. A luminously beautiful blonde woman who reminded Oliver of Catherine Deneuve opened the door.  
"Wilhelm!" She said.

That was how she pronounced it, with a soft Germanic inflection. Her voice was so soft and elegant, however. Oliver figured she was Austrian.

"What are you doing here? Is it your father?" She said.

"Not quite," he said. "Everything's gone wrong….."

"Its all right. Come in. Who is your friend?" She said.

"This is Oliver. He's American. Doesn't look it, does he?" Willem said.

Oliver wondered who this woman was to Willem, and why she was being so motherly and kind. He also wondered what he meant when he said 'its all gone wrong'. 'Play this one cool,' he thought. There might be some useful info here.

"Oliver Wolfstan," he said, and extended his hand.

She shook it, and said, "Sybille."

This told him nothing.

"You are welcome here," she said.

Willem and Oliver came inside. They walked through the entrance hall, and came into a relatively simple room with eighteenth century antique furniture.

"Wilhelm, tell me everything," Sybille said, looking at him with accepting, compassionate eyes. 

She had elegant posture, but also exuded warmth.

Willem- or, rather, Wilhelm?-looked younger, harried and defeated, fragile. Oliver said nothing as he listened to Willem's tale. His father was imprisoned. His attempt to free him had failed, and he and those who helped him fled. Outnumbered, they had thought to increase their ranks by making new Malandante out of the strong, healthy, young people at the hostel. The village nearby had become an 'off the beaten path' sort of tourist trap, especially during Carnevale and Holy weeks. But, things had gotten out of control. By the end of his story, Willem was in tears.  
If it was Elio, Oliver would be holding him like his own son. But, it was Willem.

"Wilhelm is my sister, Freyja's, son. She died," Sybille explained.

Freyja, the goddess of beauty in Norse and Germanic lore, Oliver recalled.

"Not exactly," Sybille said. She had read his mind, and he hadn't even felt it!

"It is very comfortable to conflate Freyja with Aphrodite, or Persephone. A good little daughter goddess who brings men and women together, to love," Sybille said. "But when she was first worshipped, it was as the god of time. Of destiny. Half the heroes of Valhalla belong to Freyja, the rest to Odin," Sybille. "She is mistress of destiny- love, death, and time."

"How many years does a man spend dying. What does it mean to say forever," Oliver said.

"Neruda," Sybille said.

"Yes," Oliver said.

"This one, is mad. His mind will go completely, if you try to keep him at your side. And he will devour you, like Saturn devoured his sons," Sybille told Willem.

"He's welcome to do so," Willem said.

"I want a better life for you," Sybille said. "Wilhelm's father was once a king. But, he was toppled- that is the destiny of kings. He was imprisoned in the ice caves beneath the mountain. A cruel fate. I want my nephew to live in the sun's light. But he is spoilt and angry at the gods- so his destiny frightens me."

"Stop being dramatic! I have my own coven, now- can we stay here?" Willem said.

"Hmm…..," Sybille said. "For this moon….yes. In the morning, go."

Oliver thought maybe he liked her. She was also scary. She was like a knife- not dangerous, so long as its lying on the counter.

"Where are Dan and Jen?" Oliver asked.

"Fucking. Its a good night for it, under the stars," Willem said, as they went upstairs.

"I'm only here so that you don't hurt Elio," Oliver said.

"I suppose he'll be yipping after us, soon enough," Willem said. "He follows you everywhere."

"Why do you hate him?" Oliver asked.

"Hate him? Must you hate someone to want to watch them die? Humans are strange," Willem said.   
"You must forget about being human. Its the worst thing that ever happened to you, and its over now. Come here."

Oliver gave him a heated glare. No way they were ever having sex again. That had been the worst mistake he had ever made. In certain lights, with certain expressions on his face, when his voice took on a certain tone, Oliver saw the boy he had talked with all night at the hostel, the boy he had kissed at the waterfall, for the first time feeling another man's hard cock and bare skin against his. And he'd known that he wasn't confused or curious, he was swept away with arousal like he'd never been with Daphne in four years, unless he was drunk or he had watched gay porn before they made love. He liked men, he wanted to have sex with men, to fall in love with a man, and he knew it.

When he met Elio, he had it all, all his dreams in his arms. Elio….his bright star, brightest of stars, golden sun! What can ever compare to the sun, after all? Something in Willem, however, whispered to him like the bazaar flutist’s notes charming a snake out of the dark confines of a basket….  
'Be strong,' Oliver told himself.  
He had to make sure Willem didn't hurt Elio. He remembered how cold, frozen with fright, he felt after Elio held that broken glass shard to his throat.

"Come here. Come to me. The drugs they gave you are wearing off. Let me care for you," Willem said.

He sat on a canopied bed, the frame and mattress a bit smallish for their modern height. Oliver looked at him.

'Whatever it takes to survive this, to protect Elio,' Oliver told himself. He knew what he needed, his body was telling him so as surely as any of the body's other immediate, inescapable urges.  
He sat beside Willem. He took Willem in his arms, and put his lips to Willem's neck. He bit into his skin, as hard as he could. Willem's blood tasted different than Elio's; he supposed everyone tasted differently.  
This, Oliver knew as he drank from Willem, was part of him, now. The warm blood flowed down his throat and hit his belly, and health and strength returned to his body, he felt new life in his gasping veins. Life itself. He knew that this was now how his body worked, that he needed this and always would. The drugs and treatments had done their best to suppress it, and he had tried to cooperate, so that he could resume the spontaneous, shining love he'd found with Elio at the palazzo, so that he wouldn't endanger him with his urges.

But now, his transformation was complete.

He felt Willem's command, 'Stop,' in his mind, and withdrew. Oliver lay back on the pillows.

"Better?" Willem asked.

Oliver said nothing. His body was at peace, and he didn't want to ruin it. He wished he had a poem to send to Elio. He couldn't remember any words he knew. He fell into a dream, that he and Elio were walking by the lake, hand in hand. It was not night but sunsoaked day, touching the undulating waves of the water with glittering light, bleaching the water’s color to a pale aquamarine blue. 

"Oliver, tell me what happened," Elio said.

Elio belonged in the sunshine. It framed him in soft, creamy gold.

"Willem. He found me. But I should've figured that," Oliver said. "I haven't been thinking. "

"It's all happened fast," Elio said.

Oliver squeezed his hand. "Any regrets?"

"Only one: letting you go. I can feel your thoughts. Its in the water, its in the light. This place is made of them. You think that you're like him now, that you're destructive and want to hurt people," Elio said.

"You can tell all that by the light, huh?" Oliver said.

Elio looked annoyed at him. Oliver found it cute.

"This is who you are, too. Us. We're part of each other," Elio said.

"So you've been insisting since the Carnevale. What if you're selling yourself short?" Oliver said.

"I don't think so," Elio said. "I didn't choose you, I recognized you. "

"I know. I just wish our timing was better," Oliver said. "So many things should be different. Then things would be perfect."

"So American. Why can't you just appreciate what is, instead of trying to rebuild it to suit your imagination?" Elio said.

"I thought you said this place was built by my thoughts and feelings?" Oliver said. "American ingenuity scores again."

Elio laughed and shook his head.

"You're not dreaming alone, Oliver," Elio pointed out.

"I don't ever want to dream alone again," Oliver said.

He held Elio close. He was right- Elio's emotions and thoughts built this place, too. The trees shook with love, and the sun, the sun of his dreams, bathed them in light like steadily shining hope. Elio completed him- light to his darkness, hope to his despair.

They kissed, and time was irrelevant.

Oliver fell deeper than the dream, into sleep that was lake dark, but without the stars on the surface. The dream had felt so real. It must've been real, he thought, as he slipped away into temporary serenity.


	30. Chapter 30

“So…you’ve adopted a child?” Marzia said.

Elio didn’t say anything, at first. He wasn’t ignoring her out of cruelty, it was as if her voice was delayed, somehow, reaching him.

“Her name is Maria Teresa, but she only wants to be called by her last name, Vimini. She was the Living Goddess of her coven,” he said.  
His voice was so serious. Marzia was embarrassed that she had tried humor.  
“So, you rescued her?” she asked.  
Marzia had always wished that someone had rescued her, when she was Maria Teresa Vimini’s age: 12, 13, or so. When her mother got married. If only she had known Claude, Fernando, and Elettra, then. She loved helping Elettra with dinner, and singing along to old French pop music in the kitchen, or going to the opera and ballet with Claude and Fernando. She loved working in the café, or helping Claude with the masks and costumes. Making the Carnevale masks was far more simple than she had thought, but still magical. As happy as she was now, she still felt like she had left someone behind at her mother’s house, someone scared and alone whom she needed to go back for.

“No, she insisted on coming with me,” Elio said.

They were walking beside a meadow of languidly swaying golden flowers. It was spring, at last, and Elio had been gone since the end of Carnevale, had missed all of Lent and the gilded and garlanded pomp of Holy Week. It was not his holiday, but it was how Marzia marked the time, and it had been a long time. She was glad to have him back, but she no longer lived at the villa.

“Was she being mistreated?” Marzia asked.

“No, the Hunters aren’t like that. Everything Matteo’s father is saying about them is wrong,” Elio said.

Marzia looked at him, concerned. Things had changed in their coven, since Elio ran away. In fact, Matteo’s father, the Captain, had seized Elio’s disappearance as further evidence that Zelenia was not an effectual Donna. Malandante had roved the streets during the Carnevale, and attacked humans just outside the village, Hunters had trespassed on the Benandante’s territory and their sacred charge from their goddess to fight the Malandante, and what’s more she couldn’t care for her own family. Trust in Zelenia eroded, and dark rumors began to swirl.

“You should go with Claude and Fernando, in the village,” Zelenia had told her ,and Marzia had no choice but to obey.   
But, Marzia protested, of course. She loved Zelenia and hated change. But, she knew Zelenia’s intentions-the longer Marzia stayed by her side, the more scandal she would be stained with, charges that she, like Zelenia, had appeared in people’s dreams to harass them, or made them ill out of spite, that she took part in licentious orgies hidden from the rest of the coven, attended only by Zelenia’s coterie of abandoned women. It would all be parodical if the coven didn’t take it all so seriously, with unironic outrage that they had suffered such a virago for so long. The Captain had their support, and his daughter, Matteo’s sister, was now the coven’s acting Donna. She said all the appropriate prayers to the goddess quite beautifully, but left all the hard decisions to her father.

“Of course, it’s not true, Elio. I know that,” Marzia said. “People are just afraid, after what happened during the Carnevale. When they are afraid, they don’t listen to reason. They look for someone who seems as outraged and angry as they are. ‘Ah, this person, he understands!’ they think. ‘He feels like me, he is like me…but he is not a coward like me. He has the guts to shout in the face of the powerful. He is like me, but better. I should follow him,’ they think.”

“What, like Mussolini? Is that what they want?” Elio sneered.

“He is just one of a type,” Marzia said. “When all is well, it is a bad thing to be a bully. They are buffoons, maybe even amusing in a troublesome way, but not seriously considered. When things seem uncertain, bullies look like strong men.”

“That can’t be all. That can’t be how all people think,” Elio said.  
Marzia shrugged.

“So, everyone on earth is mad except you and me?” Elio asked her.

“You think those people are everyone on earth? This is just one place, Elio,” Marzia said. “If we have to leave, that’s all right.”

“Leave? Do you think things are that bad?” Elio asked.

“I just don’t think we need to be so attached to the palazzo, the villa, the village, those people. If the goddess is the earth, then she is wherever we go, isn’t she?” Marzia asked.

“The Captain has what he wants, now. Do you think he would hurt my aunt?” Elio asked.

“When a man has the woman he wants to humiliate right where he wants her, he doesn’t stop with the first indignity. He kicks, and kicks,” Marzia said.

Elio reached out to brush her hair from her face, staring into her dark green eyes. The world was mad, but Marzia was steady, faithful, and so lovely. He felt such comfort, in just touching her hair. He leaned in to kiss her…

Marzia moved out of his reach.

“Elio….no,” Marzia said.

“What’s wrong?” Elio asked.

“Stop. Sleeping together won’t help anything,” Marzia said.

“I recall it making us feel better,” Elio said.

“You don’t really want me. Which isn’t a new development. But, now I don’t want you, either. Things are too serious. I want to keep my head clear,” Marzia said.

He couldn’t argue with that logic. They wandered the meadow, and Marzia picked golden wildflowers. Vimini and Zelenia were waiting at the villa, where Zelenia was a nominal prisoner. If she went into the village for whatever reason, the Benandante who lived there would recognize her, and the sight of her or the ripple of her presence would stir their resentment at all the ways in which she had failed them, the spells that she had allegedly cast out of malice, the lewd rituals she had reportedly performed in the name of the goddess in her darkest guise, the new moon, the crone, the crossroads guardian. There were those who believed it all, and being confined to the villa was for her ‘protection’ from those who were hostile to her.

“This is my fault,” Elio said.

“If one more man tries to make this all about him! You sound like Matteo!” Marzia said, exasperatedly. “He is constantly coming by the bookstore, apologizing to me for all of this trouble.”

“Are you angry with him, because of his father?” Elio asked.

“He says that he told you to run away to find the American,” Marzia said.

“His name is Oliver,” Elio said.

“Oliver. Is it true?” Marzia said.

“He said that I shouldn’t let Oliver and I be separated,” Elio said. “So, I snuck into the Hunter’s car, to get to the Fortress. Oliver had just been bitten, and I felt like I had to be with him.”

“You two, you bonded, didn’t you?” Marzia said.  
It was such an intimate thing to talk about. Knotting. Sharing blood. Bonding. Elio had felt blessed by the moonlight, blessed by the radiant, silverfaced full moon aspect of the goddess, on that night, the next to last night of the carnevale. It compared only to the dreams he had on the train, on the way back to the village with Vimini. He dreamed of the moon, and Oliver, that they had talked, although the exact words he was less sure of as the day dawned and went on. He believed that their souls had truly talked.

“We should go back to the villa. That little girl you brought seems lonely. She just reads Russian novels all day,” Marzia said.

“That’s what she likes to do,” Elio said.

They fetched their bikes from beneath some stunted laurels. Marzia deposited her bouquet of wildflowers in the basket on her bike, and they peddled off. Elio couldn’t shake the feeling that Oliver needed him. He didn’t want to ignore it, but he felt guilty that his aunt was in this position because he had run away to take care of Oliver.

 

“This is normal,” Sybille assured Willem.

He looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. Poor boy. Even someone such as herself, whom he trusted more than anyone, Sybille reflected, he still expected to trick, betray, omit from him, or somehow mishandle what was precious to him. She pitied him, she was perturbed by him.

Outside, the bright spring sunshine danced on the lake. The day looked bright and hopeful. Sybille held a quartz crystal that looked like eternal ice to Oliver’s forehead. His skin was feverish, his face drenched with sweat, and his eyes were unfocused and beseeching. He was nude beneath the drenched covers, and the covers were tented by his erection. He closed his eyes, and seemed somewhat soothed by the crystal.

“He’s not bonded to you, that is the problem,” Sybille said. “This is his first moon, without those medications the Hunters gave him and the day after the first full Transformation, for a vargulf…”

“He is not a vargulf,” Willem said, outraged, that his aunt would refer to Oliver by a word for a mad wolf, a feral creature. In another sense, it referred to a human who had been bitten and infected with the lycanthropy virus.

“What I mean, Wilhelm, is that you didn’t get to him first. You bit him, but he is bonded to someone else. He needs the one to whom he is bonded by his side, or he will continue to suffer,” Sybille said.

“He doesn’t need Elio,” Willem said quickly and brusquely.

“Elio? Is that his name? Elio. Helios. A Titan. The sun god. His parents had ambitions for him, I see. And, is he?” Sybille said.

“Is he, what?” Willem said.

“Brilliant,” Sybille elaborated. “Like the sun.”

“He’s soft, delicate, pretty, feminine. An ornament. He could be a garden fixture-Elio as Antinous as Hermes, between a row of hedges,” Willem said.

“You hate him. But Oliver needs him. Can you be selfless?” Sybille said.

“What do you mean?” Willem asked.

She glanced at Oliver, who had settled down somewhat, though his body was still overheated and wracked by urgent hunger.

She gestured for Willem to walk out into the corridor behind her.

“We’ll need this Elio to come here, to take care of Oliver. And, after that, you will have to let him go. Oliver can never trust you, unless he sees you let Elio go back to the Benandante in good faith,” Sybille said.

Willem glanced at the bed where Oliver lay.  
“Nothing else will work?” Willem said.  
“You resist. You don’t love him. Possessing him makes you feel powerful, and less alone, but this is not love, or you would even appeal to one you hate to save him,” Sybille said.

“Is there nothing else?” Willem pressed.

“Humans. Many of them. But, then he will truly be a vargulf,” Sybille said.

“He could never just be some beast. He has such a soul,” Willem said. “I do love him, and I can sacrifice for him.”

“To him, rather. That’s what any humans whose lives he takes will be- sacrifices to his hunger. And I asked if you could be selfless. I see that is not in you, not at all,” Sybille said.

Willem went to the city. He had tried this before, in his exile, but now he only had half his heart in the game. It was a simple exercise: whisper subtly to the minds of beautiful young people, some locals, some tourists, and lure them to an exclusive, possibly kinky party in a remote location. When they arrived, the garden was silent. The statues of voluptuous Olympians all seemed to be looking away from them, as if they knew what was going to happen and could not look the doomed tributes in the face. Some of the ‘party guests’ snickered nervously when Oliver, with his ill eyes and engorged cock, wandered into their midst beneath the half-full moon-a dented moon, like the one he had glimpsed over Elio’s shoulder at the palazzo. His brain was flooded with the various hormones of the Transformation, and though he did not transform completely the Beast lent him his strength as he overcame each of Willem’s guests and feasted on them.

He woke up in the dewy grass, breathing in the sweetness of dawn, looking up at the pale sky, the taste of dried blood in his mouth. Willem stroked his side and his bare ass lovingly, like a mother who had tended him upon his sick bed all night.

“Better?” Willem asked.

Oliver looked at him, at the dead, and then back to Willem. He felt lightning struck by his hatred of his maker and capsized by shame at himself.

“What did you do? What did I do?” Oliver said.

“You were ill. It was the only way to make you better. Your first moon took a lot out of your body, and you were weak,” Willem said.

“Will it always be like this? Will I always have to do this?” Oliver said, anguished.

“Don’t look. They hardly look human anymore,” Willem said.

“I did that!” Oliver said. Elio. He could have done this to Elio at any time, at the Fortress, if not for the medication. Now, he knew that for sure.

Elio…. He thought. It was more than a thought. His heart was crying out Elio’s name.

Sitting at his piano, at the villa, Elio heard his name, and saw a garden of statues, and chaotic scenes of Oliver, feeding on humans, and screams. The confused scenes rang with screams. Pain flared at his temples, forehead, and eyes.

“Elio?” Marzia said. She walked to his side, from the window seat where she had been with Vimini. “Elio, what is it?”

“I saw Oliver,” Elio said.

“Here?” Marzia said.

“No, no…I don’t know where he is…but he’s frightened,” Elio said. “The things I saw, they were horrible….”  
“Breathe,” Vimini reminded him.

“His mind is very distressed,” Elio said.

“Then you shouldn’t try mentally communicating with him,” Marzia warned. “It could hurt you.”

Vimini put one hand to his back, the other to his stomach, to heal him from shock. Elio smiled. He had healed her this way.

“This, then, is the little girl?” said Donna Silvia, an elder of the coven, coming into the room with Elio’s mother. They were both wearing boucle skirt suits as if they were going to a Chanel show, or lunch at a fancy hotel.

“Maman?” Elio said.

“Elio,” she said, and hugged him close, as if she had been frightened for his safety.  
Donna Silvia said, “Come with me, little girl. La Donna will keep you safe.”

Vimini nodded soberly, and said, “Yes, well, she has been since I arrived. Why do I need to go anywhere else to be safe?”

“She is confused,” Annella said.

“Maman, what is going on?” Elio said.

“Elio, I have heard many, many troubling reports about my sister’s lifestyle here, and I can now say with my whole heart that I regret giving you to her, when you were a child. You were just 13, and you needed me, and your father. I thought, because I am not a Benandante, that she could care for you better, she could understand you. I was wrong,” Annella said.

“Maman, it was years ago. I’m an adult now, I’m 18,” Elio said.

“I know, I know, but we have heard that she has brought this child here, a young girl to represent the goddess in a ritual, to feed to her followers,” Annella said.

“You stupid bitch!” Marzia howled. “how could you believe that? She’s your sister!”

Annella looked at Marzia with distaste. “Is this one of her handmaids? I don’t want to imagine in what lewd ways you service my sister. What gutter did she scrape you from to live here at her beck and call?”

“Watch your mouth,” Marzia seethed, and there was real violence in her eyes.

“Maman, what do you mean? Do you think Zelenia is going to hurt Vimini, somehow? I brought her here. We met at the Fortress,” Elio said

“We’ll talk about everything on the way back to the city, Elio. You’re coming home,” Annella said.

He walked to the window. Two young men were roughly walking Zelenia down the drive, and pushed her into a car waiting in the drive. They took off.

“I’ll come with you,” Vimini said. “I’m so sorry, Elio.”

“It’s all right, Vimini,” he said.

She had been so sure that she was supposed to come with him. He thought that it would be a safe place for her to hide from her coven….but things were more complicated, it seemed.

Donna Silvia took her hand, and Vimini placidly took her hand and allowed the coven elder to ‘rescue her’.

“Is this why you left home?” Annella said. “Because of the things she was doing?”  
Elio was horrified that he couldn’t say anything that his mother would listen to. She had a familiar face, but it was as if her mind wasn’t her own.

Marzia’s initial fury was, as Elio had reckoned, a gut reaction and a show of loyalty to Zelenia. Beneath her tough veneer, he could see that she was scared, too.

“Go to Claude and Fernando,” he told her.

Marzia looked at him with regret, then she left him alone with his mother.  
Oliver…Marzia…Vimini…everyone Elio wanted to protect seemed to be slipping from his grasp, so far away.


	31. Chapter 31

The aquamarine waters of the lake lapped at the sun-bleached shore. Oliver threw a piece of driftwood into the water, just to test its depths.  
Elio smiled, and hugged him from behind. His thin arms wrapped around his waist. Elio plucked Oliver’s sunshades from the ‘v’ of his shirt and put them on.

“So, it’s true what they say about traveling in Italy? You gotta watch out for juvenile pick- pockets?” Oliver teased him.

“Juvenile?!” Elio said, affrontedly. Oliver laughed. He turned around and put his arms around Elio. Oliver was wearing swim trunks and a blue and white striped buttoned shirt, buttoned low to expose his chest to the sun. Elio was wearing a sailor striped Lacoste polo.

“I had this English teacher in high school, who told me, like, twice that he went to that big Pink Floyd concert in Italy. You know, the one where there was a lightning storm? I guess he was trying to impress me. I wasn’t really the Pink Floyd guy. I’m hopeless about music, really. Something about the way he would kneel beside my desk and talk in low voice to me when the room was dark..They had to switch the lights off to use the projector, and that’s when he would do things like that-try to get close to me, somehow, until I just started shutting him out. Then he got mean, graded me unfairly, egged the other kids on to pick on me. One day he told me, “One day you’re going to write about me,”” Oliver said. “Like, he’d wanted me to love him, but he was happy if I hated him as long as I didn’t forget him.”

“Who has to harass someone to be remembered?” Elio said.

“I know. It’s like he wanted to live a story he had already written, and I wouldn’t play my role,” Oliver said.

“We aren’t made for anyone’s story but our own,” Elio said.

“How are you so wise, so good, and so beautiful?” Oliver asked.

Elio smiled and said, “Hmm, you’re right. I’m a big fuckin’ deal.” 

Oliver hugged him.

“I love this lake,” Oliver said.

“Wait till you see the ruins,” Elio said. 

Oliver and Elio slipped their sandals back on and wandered through the ruins of a Roman town. The neat lanes of the old village took them by taverns, bakeries, brothels, bath houses, and on the hill were the villas of the rich. They passed a round-bellied statue of a satyr, and entered a villa with red walls. Painted on the walls were scenes of initiation into the worship of Dionysus, and his wife, Ariadne.

“Like, Theseus’s Ariadne?” Oliver asked.  
“Yes. After Ariadne helped Theseus escape the Minotaur, they sailed away from her father’s kingdom. They sailed to a small island, and Ariadne fell asleep on the sand. The god appeared to Theseus, and told him to leave the princess where she lay-she belonged to him-to Dionysus. Ariadne was heartbroken, as first…but she came round. Dionysus gave her ambrosia, and made her immortal. He made her a crown out of stars. She became a goddess, and his wife,” Elio said.  
“What was she the goddess of?” Oliver asked.  
“All goddesses are the same goddess, and rule over just one thing,” Elio said.  
“What is that?” Oliver asked.  
“Everything,” Elio said.   
Oliver slipped his hand in Elio’s. He was so smart.   
“Can you imagine what people got up to in this place, centuries ago?” Oliver said.  
“Even then, it was a secret,” Elio said.  
“Like the Benandante,” Oliver said.  
“Yes,” Elio said.  
“Can we ever live together, Elio? I feel like Ariadne,” Oliver said.  
“Immortal?” Elio said.  
“Changed. Willem claimed me, and changed me, the way Dionysus did Ariadne,” Oliver said.   
Elio touched his face. “No, my love. You are the same. You have the same bright soul that called to me at the carnevale.”  
“Elio….” Oliver murmured. “Is it weird that I just want to say your name over, and over again? Elio, Elio, Elio…”  
“Stop saying his name!” Willem roared, and knocked a porcelain basin and pitcher to the floor. They shattered, as did Oliver’s vision of Elio.   
“Willem! Control yourself,” said his aunt, Sybille, who was wearing a blue silk dress. “If you can’t, you’ll have to leave.”  
“I thought we had to leave, anyway,” Oliver said.  
“Sybille spoke rashly, before. She can’t just turn us away in our hour of need,” Willem said.  
Oliver doubted that Sybille ever spoke rashly.   
“What did you do with them?” Oliver asked. “the bodies?”  
“Don’t worry about it,” Willem said.  
“They were kids. Just kids. Will their families ever know what happened to them? What I did?” Oliver asked.  
Willem stroked his shoulders. Oliver flinched away.   
Sybille looked at Willem. There was a warning in her eyes. Willem, for once, listened. They left the bedroom, leaving Oliver alone.   
Oliver stared up at the roof of the canopy bed. He felt covered in shame. He had killed, and not only that, his body felt peaceful and sated now that he had done it. He was a monster, and could never return to Elio. Only in his dreams. He’d weave a life of dreams, then. Dreams of Elio. Was there any other way?  
He thought of when Daphne told him that he never fought back, never stood up for himself against Dan. He could feel her disapproval, and the way it rankled him and yet he knew it was true and couldn’t disagree.   
His father, Daphne’s friends, now Willem…it seemed there was always someone in his life who set the terms, whom he felt like he couldn’t fight. To fight back would disturb the balance, cause trouble, end worse than it began, he always thought. But, now, he realized that he had always assumed, never tried. Would it really be such a disaster if he reclaimed himself? What would he win, if he tried? Himself. The rest of his life. Freedom. His body, for better or worse, was stronger now. He could chance an escape. But, where would he go?   
Back to the fortress. He would tell them everything, and hopefully they would decide to help him rather than lock him away from the light forever. Elio would be proud of him, and would be by his side.   
Oliver thought about the moon. The full moon that had shown on him the night before, the moon over the lake in his dream of Elio, the one he was sure Elio had dreamed, too. He thought of the way its light caressed him with its palpable, gentle warmth. He Transformed, and jumped out the window. He landed on his feet, and bounded into the woods.

Marzia went back to Claude and Fernando’s house, as Elio had asked her to. She could’ve told Donna Silvia and Annella exactly what she thought of them, but she didn’t want to make things harder for Elio and Zelenia.  
“This is the sort of thing we have been afraid of for a while now, but its all happened so fast,” Elettra said. Genaro was sitting at her feet, on the floor, looking serious and worried.   
“But, how can people believe such ridiculous stories?” Marzia said.  
Claude handed Marzia a cup of tea and said, “They aren’t thinking straight. They feel threatened, and so all the reasons Zelenia always made them uncomfortable are coming to the forefront. She’s different.”  
“Why? Because she’s not married? She has no children, and her hair is short? Do you know how shallow all this sounds?” Marzia said.  
“It is shallow, but the Malandante have frightened them, and she didn’t tell them to do the one thing they most wanted to do: fight back. We don’t like to be told that we can pick up and carry on with everyday life if we don’t think we can. Fighting back fulfills the immediate instinct for revenge and protection. Fortitude, resilience, and a plan for the future-those are not as immediately satisfying,” Fernando said.  
“This is mad,” Marzia said. “They have taken Vimini, the little girl that Elio brought with him, and Elio….he is with his mother.”  
“Do you think she’ll come round, Annella?” Claude asked.  
“I don’t know. She seems to think that Zelenia stole Elio from her,” Marzia said. “She took me in when my mother betrayed me, when I had nowhere to go, no one cared. She isn’t some dark priestess, and she isn’t a traitor to the Benandante. Why can’t they see?”  
Fernando rubbed her shoulders.  
“You must put on a brave face, dear,” Fernando said. “I know it will be difficult, but you can’t show how you feel. You’re so close to Zelenia, everyone will be watching you closely and gauging your reaction. Be natural.”  
“And it’s the same for us, dear,” Claude added. “We’ll all have to put on a brave face. It will help her, in the end.”  
“I know that you’re right. But…why would they take her? Where are they going? What will be done with her?” Marzia asked.  
She looked out the window, at the village. It was the only place she had ever really known-where its walls met the river, where its roads trailed out to the rolling green countryside, was the perimeter of her world, and the scene of all her memories. She had always known that it was a small slice of the world, that its people were traditional and slow witted, simple and pleasant enough as long as they weren’t confronted with anything too complicated. If they were, it frustrated them, and made them feel as if someone was trying to put them down or trick them. The humans were bad enough, when it came to this, and Marzia had lived among them for all her childhood. She had always gotten the feeling, from people’s expressions, reactions, and comments, that it was considered odd and difficult for a girl to enjoy school, to read more than she talked, not to chase boys, to respond with real anger not coquettish indignance when a boy gave her a hard time, to do what she felt simply because she felt it.  
But, even a casual glance at television was enough to reassure her that this way, lay greatness. Madonna, Isabella Rossellini, Angelina Jolie, and Princess Stephanie of Monaco did what they wanted, didn’t they? She didn’t mind being like them.  
Now, she saw the other side. The accusations, the insinuations, the mob mentality thinking that had led so many independent women throughout history to perish beneath the slur ,‘Witch’.  
Oh, Zelenia, she thought, like a sigh held in.

Elio and his mother drove to the house where Zelenia was being held. It was behind a gate. They crossed a courtyard with a fountain. The frothing water reminded Elio of the Cups suit in the Tarot cards Zelenia was teaching Marzia to use. He wished that Oliver was with him. He had dreamed of him once again, that they were wandering a lake and ruins of a Roman village. He felt like they were on vacation. Daphne had gotten to backpack with Oliver, to discover the countryside’s hidden nooks and stop at cafes, bakeries, and maybe even contemplate marriage in humble rural chapels. Elio wanted that chance, so badly-to travel the world, seeing its beauty with Oliver.  
“Have you talked to Mafalda? Manfredi? Anchise? They can tell you that there were no dark rituals, no licentious gatherings. We had dinner. We talked. She, Marzia, and I were a family,” Elio said.  
“Then, you and Marzia were never sexually active?” Annella said.  
“What does that have to do with Zelenia?” Elio said.  
“She encouraged you two! Children, living under her roof! Where was she?” Annella said.  
“We snuck off, how was she supposed to know? We liked each other, and we were lonely,” Elio said.  
“Why would you be lonely?” Annella said.  
“Because you left me,” Elio said.  
“Elio….we brought you to the villa for Zelenia to heal you. We gave you to her to care for you as your body began to change for the Transformation. She’s betrayed us all, but me, first. I suppose such things begin with those closest to you,” Annella said. “all we can do now is find the proof that we need.”  
“What proof?” Elio said. “Of what?”  
“That she consorted with the Malandante, allowed them to take a certain number of humans, so long as they didn’t attack within the village. That she worshipped their goddess. That she prayed for foul things, prayed to the New Moon,” Annella said.  
“And, then what? You prove all of these lies, what is our future?” Elio said.  
“You don’t understand,” Annella said.  
The cry of everyone who has nothing to say to explain themselves further once all their slogans are exhausted. Elio gave up reasoning with his mother. He felt tense, he was even sweating. When he heard soothing music drifting down the hall, it was so incongruous to how he felt.   
“Vimini,” he said. She was playing a large harp, looking content and absorbed in her instrument.  
“Vimini came with me from the fortress, Maman. Zelenia doesn’t want to sacrifice her,” Elio said.  
“Elio, please, don’t interfere,” Annella said.  
They came to the dining room. The Captain and his daughter, Giada, were sitting at a long table covered in a white tablecloth.   
Without preamble, the Captain said, “Tell us about your aunt.”  
“What about her?” Elio asked.  
“What have you observed in her house, since she took you from your parents?” he asked.  
“No one took me. I was ill. My parents didn’t know how to deal, so they brought me here. To the Benandante, because it looked like I was one of them. Zelenia cared for me,” Elio said.  
“But, you ran away. You must have run, for a reason. Did you see something , that shocked you? Did you discover something about her?” Giada said.   
“I ran away to be with Oliver,” Elio said.  
“Oliver. The Malandante,” the Captain said brusquely.  
“He was human, when we met. We met at the carnevale. He followed me. I thought it was funny, and kept walking, around different corners, taking different streets, to see how long he would follow me, if he would get bored or frustrated and give up. He didn’t. He caught up with me. I don’t know if I ever believed that Benandante are like true wolves, we all have one soulmate, but I started to think…okay, yes, maybe. And then he came to the palazzo,” Elio said.  
“Yes? And what did he do to you, there?” Giada asked.  
“Everything I ever wanted a man to do to me, he did,” Elio said. “Did you think I meant that I wanted to shake his hand? Oliver is my lover. He was attacked by a Malandante. The Malandante that have been our enemies for all our history. We used to protect people from them. But, now we seek only to keep out of their way. We’re afraid that we can’t face them, that they will attack, and we won’t be able to stand against them. But, fear is making us cruel and suspicious, merciless and intolerant of people who are different-because they seem like a threat or a weakness.”  
“And who do you think is doing that, Elio?” Donna Giada said.  
“You, your father, my mother, Donna Silvia, and anyone who believes and is spreading these outlandish lies about Zelenia,” Elio said.  
“Elio, I think I have a solution. If you have such strong objections to how our coven protects itself, then perhaps you should leave. Yes, I think you should leave. You are exiled, Elio. Go,” Giada said.   
Elio felt as if he heard her words twice, echoing. He thought of Marzia, Vimini, and Zelenia. How would he protect them? Where would he go?   
Elio’s mother looked even more stunned then he felt.  
“But…this is Elio’s family. He’s done nothing wrong,” Annella said, stunned.  
“He isn’t one of us, if he would dare to criticize us. Are you loyal to your captain, Annella?” Giada asked, while her father looked on with pride.   
It had never occurred to Annella that the captain and the donna required loyalty so total that it deprioritized her ties to her son.   
She was the first to cough when smoke filled the room. Elio couldn’t see the source. Nothing was on fire. It spread quickly, and soon obscured the sight of the furniture, the Captain, and the Donna, his daughter. Elio grabbed his mother’s hand, and urged her to leave the room. The corridor was full of smoke, too.  
“Elio!” said the person who grabbed his arm. He knew the voice.  
“Rainier?” he said. The alchemist. He had not seen him since the carnevale.   
“This way,” Rainier said, leading Elio and his mother out of the house.   
“Did you do this? Is it toxic?” Elio said.  
“None of my compounds are toxic,” Rainier said, primly indignant.   
Rainier, Elio, Annella, and Vimini made it out of the house, taking a back door that led out to the garden. There, they met up with Balthasar and Zelenia.  
“Why is the Prince here?” Annella said.  
“I always meant to ask what you were Prince of,” Elio said.  
“You know…vampires,” Balthasar said. “But, there are lots of vampire princes. Its like collecting Pez dispensers, it’s not special.”  
“I see,” Elio said. He hugged his aunt.  
“I’m so sorry I left,” Elio said.   
“This isn’t your fault,” Zelenia said.  
“We must go,” Balthasar said. He picked his shadow up from the ground, and wrapped it around him and Zelenia. They were invisible. They were shadows. Somehow, Elio felt it when they walked away, though he could not see them.   
“Wonderful. Does he have a spare?” Elio asked.  
“No, we’ll just have to run,” Rainier said.  
“What a shame. This was meant to be our safe haven. Where will we go now?” Vimini wondered aloud.  
No one had an answer for her. Elio felt farther away from Oliver, and eager to see him again, in dreams.

Oliver lost his way. He lost sight of his memories of the moon, and his body started to rebel against the Transformation. ‘Elio,’ he thought hopelessly. He passed out, and had no idea how long he had been out when he came to. Th first thing he noticed was that he was being moved. Someone had their hands under his armpits, and was trying their best to move him.  
“Are you awake? Can you walk, because I don’t think I’m getting very far,” she said. It was a female voice.  
“Its not much of a rescue if I get up and walk all by myself, is it?” he said, his voice slurred and weak.  
“Can you?” said the woman trying to move him.’  
“No,” he said.  
“Damn!” she said. “Oh, well. Back to square one.”  
She grunted, and dragged him a little bit farther, towards the old stone farmhouse in the distance.


	32. Chapter 32

“Wear these. You’re naked,” she said, and distractedly pulled some clothes out of a closet. Oliver slipped on the flannel shirt, sweater, and jeans.

She appeared to be wearing men’s clothes, too, a sweater, corduroys, and a hat like Holden Caulfield’s. She was an eccentric sight, to be sure, but Oliver had reached that nirvanic state of physical exhaustion where everything’s okay. You just go with whatever’s happening. After Casa Allegra, Oliver expected rustic simplicity, maybe a vase of wildflowers. Instead, books were everywhere, covering every surface.

“What were you doing out there?” She asked.

“Running,” Oliver said.

She frowned, as if gauging whether he was making a quip or being earnest.

“From what?” She asked, after deciding that he was serious.

“What’s your name?” Oliver asked.

“Matilda Woodville,” she said. “You?”

“Oliver Wolfstan,” he said.

“Hmm….isn’t that a village, a little ways from here, Wolfstan?” she said.

“I think I came from there, more or less,” he said. The village must take its name from the castle, which was the Hunter’s fortress.

“Then you were running for a very, very long time,” she said.

He heard a hint of dry humor in her tone. Oliver had always had a low tolerance for being the butt of jokes. His father thought he was too sensitive. His mother had a way of half-heartedly agreeing with his indignance, that felt worse than being told that he was wrong. The tone of her behavior made him feel like his feelings were a tiresome habit. This was when he was a boy-as he got older, and became a teen, he just stopped telling people things, so as not to be a bother. Maybe that was when he began to put up with things, with people like Dan, and Willem.

“Thank you,” Oliver said.

“It sounds like you’re leaving. I wouldn’t advise that. I don’t have any shoes that’ll fit you. You have very big feet,” she said.

Oliver liked her. Although she was an adult, she had a solemn, awkward honesty that reminded him of Vimini. He missed his life at the cottage and the farm with Elio and the other lycanthropy study subjects. He had ruined it, even before running off with Willem. He had been so jealous of the way Elio and Isaac bonded over music, of the way Elio turned to him and Mounir for a stability that Oliver felt like he should be the one to provide for Elio. He wished he had savored every day with Elio, more.

“Thanks for the clothes, and for dragging me in here. Do you live here by yourself?” Oliver asked.

“I do now,” Matilda said.

“Was it a bed and breakfast…?” Oliver asked.

“My father bought this house. We came here for his research,” Matilda said.

Oliver looked around at the books scattered everywhere. Some of the titles seemed to reflect an interest in the occult, and witch trials of the medieval and Renaissance period.

“Was your father a historian?” Oliver asked.

“An anthropologist. Are you hungry?” Matilda asked.

“Full, actually,” Oliver answered, remembering the unholy feast he’d made of young bodies in the garden. Only because of them, was Matilda safe around him.

She shrugged, sat on the couch with her legs folded, and opened a book. She immediately looked too absorbed to talk. Oliver envied her thick wool socks. His feet still felt cold.

“Go lie down. We’ll have dinner in a couple of hours,” she said.  
Her brusqueness felt like a form of familiarity. Or, maybe it was just that she reminded him of Vimini, and maybe a little of Dr. Gristwood. Oliver lay down, but in the distance he could hear Matilda listening to a recording of what sounded like a lecture. He wasn’t curious until he heard the word ‘Benandanti’. He sat up.  
Matilda came to his room with tea.  
“Drink it. It’ll help you sleep,” Matilda said. She’d taken her hat off. Her hair was a brilliant brick red.  
“I heard the word, ‘Benandante’. In the lecture you were listening to,” Oliver said.  
“Those were my father’s notes,” Matilda said.  
“He was studying the Benandante?” Oliver asked.  
“What do you know about them?” Matilda asked.  
“I had never heard the word at all until I went back-packing with some friends, and my girlfriend. We came to this small village, at carnevale time,” Oliver said.  
“Were they appeasing the beast?” Matilda said, with a small smile of familiarity.  
“Yeah. That’s what the locals believed the carnevale was for. The villagers were pretty forthcoming about the local legends. They told us about the Benandante, the good wolves, and Malandante, the bad wolves,” Oliver said.  
Matilda nodded, as if he had been more or less correct, so far, and was allowed to continue.  
“Some people there…even believe that they are Benandante, or at least are descended from them,” Oliver said.  
“Quite possible. There are church records of the trials and interrogations of many people who believed that they were. They had a funny habit of confessing. Sometimes they sold their particular skills-healing, interpreting dreams, speaking to the spirits of the dead, and, of course, fighting the astral attacks of witches and Malandante-in much the same way that many people sold the promise of special abilities to the superstitious public. But, sometimes, they just seemed to confess to an acquaintance or neighbor, or even in the town square, quite out of the blue,” Matilda said.  
“Not a very smart thing to do when the suspicion of witchcraft was a death sentence,” Oliver said  
“Quite right. But, from their point of view, they were quite different from witches. Witches were their enemies,” Matilda said. “But, my father had a theory about these spontaneous confessions.”  
“What was his theory?” Oliver asked.  
“That they were influenced to confess by Malandante. Psychically influenced. To draw them out into the open, like…lions herding their prey into a river, or something,” Matilda said.  
“Interesting…but, how would you prove a thing like that?” Oliver said.  
Matilda smiled, as if remembering something.  
“All we could really do was go over the interrogation transcripts, such as they are, of the alleged Benandante and their relatives, and look for common behaviors leading up to the time of confession. And compare that with anecdotal data from the locals,” she said.  
“There are Benandante here? In this area?” Oliver said.  
“There were, once. The last Benandanti died a few months before my father disappeared,” Matilda said.  
“Disappeared?” Oliver said.  
Matilda nodded.  
“None of what I’ve said so far has been strange to you. Is there a reason for that?” Matilda asked.  
Oliver wanted to ask more question about what had happened to her father, but she probably sensed that and was changing topics for that reason.  
“I was an anthropology major,” he confessed.  
“Was?” Matilda asked.  
“I’m on a bit of a sabbatical,” Oliver said.  
“What culture was your favorite to study, so far?” Matilda asked.  
“The Nacirema,” Oliver said.  
“Strangest tribe of all,” Matilda said.  
Matilda and Oliver sat side by side on the couch, and she showed him her father’s books, recordings, and notes. Her father came to this remote region, and brought her along, to study the Benandante. When they first arrived, the village nearby was home to one Benandante, one elderly man. He, and other citizens agreed that their had not been an attack from Malandante in years, but they had occurred in living memory.  
“Bad crops? Sick kids?” Oliver asked.  
“Various complaints. The Benandanti we were interviewing was a much younger man, and intervened,” Matilda said. “This time, he was not young.”  
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said. He thought of Elio, and how haunted he was by being psychically attacked.   
“Their presence is still in the village. Only a Benandante could confront them, but none of the children in the village show the signs. Granted, many young people have gone to the city for work, but if they had showed signs they would have been sent to Signore Alfonsi-the last Benandante, our subject-for an apprenticeship, of sorts,” Matilda said.  
“Your father..?” Oliver asked.  
“I don’t know. I can’t understand why they would take him, and leave all of his research. It would make sense, that they don’t want to be known. They’ve never wanted that. We didn’t find any record of someone, between the 13th and 15th centuries, confessing that they were Malandante. They don’t come out of the shadows. But, why leave all the records we have of even the rumor of their existence, and take my father?" Matilda asked.  
“Matilda….you can’t trust me,” Oliver said. “I wish you could. And I wish I could help you. But, I’ll end up hurting you.”  
“What do you mean?” Matilda said.  
“I’m one of them. I was bitten, and, now I’m Malandante,” Oliver said.  
“That’s perfect,” she said.  
Oliver frowned, confused.  
“I think the village can use you. Have you ever left your body, Oliver?” Matilda said.  
He wasn’t sure what she was driving at-some kind of “Seven Samurai” scenario where he saved the townsfolk? Not happening. He’d probably just end up eating them all.  
“Yes,” he said tentatively.  
He thought about the times he had met Elio in a shared dream-by the lake, in the waterfall, the field of wulfenia, and most recently, at the ruins. But, that was different-that was all Elio.  
“Well, that’s a start,” Matilda said.  
“I’m not a Benandante,” Oliver said.  
“My father believed that the difference between Benandante and Malandatne was ideological. Different syntheses of the Catholic church’s teachings and their indigenous beliefs about vegetation deities, holistic healing and…” Matilda began.  
Oliver interrupted. “It’s a Hell of a lot more than ideological,” he said.  
He didn’t mean to raise his voice. He only realized that he had when she flinched.  
“Sit down. Drink your tea,” Matilda said, her voice calm, but firm.  
“At some point,” she continued, “the Malandante began to accept the idea that they were demonic in origin and their purpose was to bedevil humans. The Benandante, however, maintained their traditions of healing and nature guardianship, which my father is…was pretty confident in asserting can be traced back to the pre-Roman worship of Fauna and Faunus. Now, you can interrupt me if you were going to do that, again.”  
“No, and I’m so, so sorry I did before. And that I raised my voice. It’s just…those theories sound good. In a paper, in a journal or presented at a conference, or published in some book by a university press. But…on the ground, its different. Whatever internecine ideological schism we’re living in the fallout of, what does it matter? People are getting hurt,” Oliver said.  
“How can we help if we don’t understand how it began? Forgive me. When you told me that you were an anthropology major, I thought I could speak plainly,” Matilda said. “Long story short, I don’t think there is any difference in your nature than a Benandante. With practice, you could learn to, as the Benandante of the Renaissance put it, ‘enter the fields of Josaphat’.”  
“Fields of Josaphat…actually, I was on my way somewhere else,” Oliver said.  
“When you collapsed,” Matilda reminded him.  
“Long distance running wasn’t my thing before I became a Malandante,” Oliver said.  
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” Matilda said.  
“According to Oscar Wilde, so we can assume that it was said ironically,” Oliver said. “Look, I’m not safe to be around, how can I save anyone?”  
“How can you not? I don’t think any more naked, barefoot werewolves with psychic abilities are going to come anywhere near this village anytime soon. The people who live here are old. Or, they’re children whose parents see them maybe once a month. They live far away, so that they can work. There are no jobs here. Just sick old people, and children. They aren’t safe, as long as the Malandante target them, for whatever reason. Are you just going to walk away?” Matilda said.  
Oliver said, “How would I begin?”  
Matilda smiled, satisfiedly, and handed him a book.  
“Our notes,” she said.


	33. Chapter 33

The front door shut, and Mathilda Woodville walked through the first floor, from the front door to the kitchen. Despite the fact that a good number of the villagers considered her a sort of albatross, she had explained, she was permitted to buy whatever she needed early in the morning, when the market had first opened. Oliver shifted in bed, where he had stayed most of yesterday.  
“There’s a flower festival in the village,” she said. “Wish I could go. The way the vegetable seller describes it, its really something.” She stood in his doorway, wearing her father’s sweater and pants, as usual, holding a tote full of their groceries.  
“Flowers?” Oliver asked. He had come to Italy in winter. Now, it was spring. So much had happened.  
“Are you….okay?” she asked.  
Oliver said nothing. He was sweaty, and the sheet was torturing him, lapping at the head of his sensitive, engorged penis which ever way he moved, like an overzealous tongue that was everywhere.  
“I’ll be fine. You know, it’s not fair…how they treat you…” Oliver said.  
“It doesn’t anger me. I understand it. You know, ‘benandante’ means those who do good. They see themselves as healers, as protectors. But, getting the rest of the world to see them that way has ben largely fruitless, for six hundred years. The church persecuted them, and they had to hide who they are. My dad came here to learn from them, but it was always…fraught. Now, they have every reason to believe that we did them more harm than good,” Mathilda said. “Many people are Benandante, but not everyone is able to perform the things we’ve read about, that they believe protect them from evil. They must feel very, very, vulnerable. And, I’m a stranger.”  
“You’re very wise. You remind me of someone I used to know,” Oliver said, thinking of Vimini.  
“Do you mean Elio?” Mathilda asked. “what is he like?”  
“He’s compassionate, and smart, and graceful. He’s…a golden sun,” Oliver said.  
Mathilda smiled. “Why don’t you think of him? Would that help?”  
Oliver didn’t want to discuss it.  
“I just assumed that’s what you were up here, doing all this time,” Mathilda said.  
Oliver sighed.  
“I have been,” he said. “It comes back.”  
“It’s called Priapism,” Mathilda said. “Like the Roman god, Priapus? Its from the same hormones that make your body change.”  
“Mathilda, I really don’t want to talk about it,” Oliver said. His hard cock lay on his stomach. The heat and weight of it slapped his hairy belly, dripping dew, as he moved.  
“So…its never happened before?” Mathilda did.  
“It did. But….Willem, the Malandante who bit me…his solution for it wasn’t pretty, nothing I’d like to do again,” Oliver said. He remembered the garden, and shuddered, pushing the memories away.  
“What? What was it?” Mathilda said.  
“Please, just…I’m going to try to get some sleep,” Oliver said.  
“Oh, Oliver…the problem is, you don’t believe that you deserve help,” Mathilda said. “Why?”  
“It’s not that…I just don’t want to hurt anyone,” Oliver said.  
Mathilda sat the bags on the floor. She sat in the chair beside Oliver’s bed, and looked into his eyes, imploring her to trust him. She seemed benevolent and stern, like a visitation from a saint in the fevered dreams of a Crusader. She was serious, pure, and good. Almost like Elio. Sadness fluttered in his heart and diffused through his belly, dampening his mind. Elio was so far away. He’d flattered himself that he was breaking away from Willem to one day be with Elio again, but how likely was that?  
“I’ll help you. Close your eyes. Think about Elio,” she said, and gently pulled back the covers. When she cradled his erection in her hands, it was an utterly sexless gesture on her part. It was just a procedure of relief, like a massage.  
Oliver winced.  
“What’s wrong?” Mathilda asked.  
“It’s just sensitive,” he said.  
She took some Burt’s Bee’s hand salve out of her pocket, and lathed her hands and his cock with it. The scent of lavender, rosemary, peppermint, and eucalyptus filled the room, and the slide of her hands began to both soothe Oliver and bring all the feelings that had been running wildly through him for hours to a palpable, mounting intensity. Ripples rang through his scrotum, and his anus. His lower back began to feel like a glacier of tension was melting and breaking within him. He closed his eyes. Once more, he was in the Visconti Sforza palazzo on the next to last night of Carnevale, the heavy velvet covers making him feel warm and safe as he and Elio made love. Did he really remember what it was like to be alone with Elio, to hold him in his arms? Elio was becoming a dream.  
“Elio…..” he murmured, forgetting that it was Mathilda’s hand. It didn’t even feel like anyone’s hand. Relief had fallen from heaven, the pleasure and relief liberating his body was an answered prayer, something holy.  
“Why were you so sure that Elio was your soulmate?” Mathilda said, as she stroked him.  
“Because he said so,” Oliver said.  
“And why was he so sure?” Mathilda said.  
“He’s a Benandanti, I figured he knew about these things,” Oliver said.  
“Hmmm,” Mathilda said. “I think that you two recognized each other. I think you were always meant for this, Oliver.”  
“For Elio,” he said.  
He didn’t care about the rest. Moldering records in Vatican basements or small village courthouses, the names of old castles somewhere between Switzerland, Austria, and Italy. He didn’t need a smoking gun in the form of a family tree and a Benandanti ancestor from medieval Slovenia or Austria to explain why he felt like his soul was exulting and threatening to leap from his belly button when he met Elio, why he felt so whole he wanted to cry when they kissed. All that mattered was what he felt, that was his truth. Elio….Oliver saw him, as clear as light, as he orgasmed in Mathilda’s grasp. Elio’s green eyes, his full lips the color of fruit, his angel’s face, so kind, so patient, so sad….  
Why was Elio sad?  
Oliver fell back onto the pillows, the vision of Elio gone, his vision a field of snow, pain striking his head like lightning.  
When he woke up, Mathilda was handing him a teacup.  
“Why did you do that?” Oliver said.  
“Because, you were in pain. Some of the villagers described Priapism in our interviews. There used to be more Benandante, mostly men, and we talked to their wives, their relatives,” Mathilda said. “This should help you settle down-if you drink it.”  
Oliver took a sip. It tasted very….medicinal. He had just gotten an hand job from a girl, from Mathilda whom he liked and respected but had no interest in, in that way….and it made him feel closer to Elio than he had since Casa Allegra.  
“Do you feel better?” she asked.  
“Yes,” he admitted, although this was all weird.  
“Not everyone in the village shuns me completely, and I was told, while you were sleeping, that some children playing on the edge of the village saw…something,” Mathilda said.  
“Something?” Oliver asked.  
“A strange animal,” Mathilda said.  
“It could be Willem, Jen, or Dan,” he said.  
“Possibly,” she said. “I need you to bounce back, so we can start to go over the records, and Dad’s notes, and figure out how they did it. The Benandante, and their night battles.”  
“Right,” Oliver said. That was why he had given him the hand job, and he understood it.  
Oliver felt strong enough to get out of bed, after a while. He felt haunted by Elio when he was alone. His long, gentle fingers were drifting up and down Oliver’s back as he showered and dressed, phantom music played in the distance, it seemed at first, but was really inside Oliver’s head. Elio’s music. He remembered following him through the winding streets during Carnevalee. Then, as now, he was elusive, distant and near.  
Mathilda lent him some of her dad’s clothes. He came downstairs, and found her carefully turning the pages of a very old book, whose dusty smell hit him when he was still nearly a foot away from her. She was frowning.  
“I think I’ve found something, but I’ll have to leave the house, and go into the forest,” she said.  
“What is it?” Oliver asked.  
“A plant, that we can use to induce a shamanic trance. Hopefully it still grows around here. This country doesn’t have the best environmental preservation track record…but this region is pretty unspoilt,” Mathilda said.  
“You can’t go alone! You said those kids saw something that could be a Malandante in the woods,” Oliver said.  
“I know, I know,” Mathilda said, in a comforting, shushing tone, like a mother. “but, you’re too weak. Besides, the closer you are to your Master, the more vulnerable you’ll be. If its Willem, then you’ll probably be taken again.”  
“He’s not my master,” Oliver said.  
“You know what I mean,” Mathilda said.  
“We’ll go together,” Oliver said.  
“What about my father’s work? What if I leave, and whoever took him comes back and destroys all his work? Everything there is to be known about the Benandante will be lost,” Mathilda said.  
“I didn’t know your father, Mathilda. I wouldn’t try to tell you what he would think is the right thing to do. What do you really feel? Not what you’re afraid will happen, but what do you feel is right?” Oliver asked.  
She grabbed a basket, and her raincoat.  
“Let’s go,” she said.  
They went to the woods together, and picked a ghostly white flower.  
When they returned to the farmhouse, Elio, Vimini, and Marzia were waiting at the door.  
“Oliver the American? What are you doing here?” Marzia said. “You’re a traitor! You left Elio for the Malandante.”  
“Stop shouting. Didn’t I tell you my head hurts?” Vimini said.  
“Marzia, stop,” Elio said. “Please?”  
She shot him an epic glare, and then aimed it at Oliver. If looks, Oliver thought, could kill.  
“We came here because Claude and Fernando said that Benandante lived here,” Marzia said.  
“Their information is a little out of date. The last Benandanti died. He was a lovely man, and he was trying to drive a Malandanti out of the village,” Mathilda said. “It’s attacked several animals, and one child. Things slowed down, but there was a sighting today.”  
“He must have gotten free of his leash,” Marzia said drily, looking at Oliver.  
“Oliver hasn’t been violent, in any way,” Mathilda said.  
“When his Master calls…? What, then?” Marzia said.  
Oliver thought of the garden of youths.  
“Elio,” He said. “Marzia is right.”  
Elio said nothing. He was like someone in a dream, who is so close, and so clear, but does not speak. He looked older, more serious, and thinner. Vimini was holding his hand, and she looked very tired.  
“Vimini’s sick, and she’s been having bad dreams,” Elio said, as if reading Oliver’s thoughts.  
“Come inside, please,” Mathilda said.  
“Oh, you have exactly what I need, how wonderful,” Vimini said, looking at Mathilda’s basket.  
“You’re..a Benadanti?” Mathilda said.  
“Depending on who you ask, she’s a goddess,” Marzia said.  
“Tell me more, about what this village has suffered,” Vimini said, in a calm, soothing voice, as if this was Fatima, she was the Virgin, and they were all just children.  
Elio smirked, clearly bemused at her solemnity. His eyes met Oliver’s and he felt the brief caress of Hebrew passing from Elio’s mind to his. Bashert.  
‘How do we know those things, Elio? Wouldn’t that mean that there’s a God?’ Oliver thought.  
He could feel Elio wordlessly urging him to go inside out of the cold, it was too balmy for existential crises.  
“Oliver…I don’t think I need you in the way I thought I did,” Mathilda said, looking at Vimini and all the possibilities she presented.  
As they walked into Mathilda’s house, Marzia gave Oliver one last glare, just to let him know that she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. But, Oliver didn’t blame her.  
It was as if she knew about the garden of mangled tributes, as if she had stolen it from his mind.  
While Vimini and Mathilda talked about the herbs and rituals of the night battles, what was legend and what could be done, Oliver and Marzia spoke in the kitchen.  
“What did you see?” he asked her.  
“What do you think I saw?” Oliver said.  
“I love Elio. He thinks that…some greater power brought us together. Has he told you that?” Oliver said.  
“It’s just an old fairy tale. We’re not really wolves, who mate for life. Elio is free to change his mind,” Marzia said. “He’s like a brother to me.”  
Images of her and Elio in each other’s arms frothed between them as if from a hidden well, giggling couplings on the grass beneath stars, scored by the throaty symphony of frogs and cicadas.  
“Okay, maybe more than a brother. He is the only man I trust, besides Claude and Fernando, but they are old, like fathers. You know what I mean. I’ll never trust anyone besides Elio, and you have done nothing but hurt him, sneak off and leave him every chance you get, to be with a monster,” Marzia said.  
“I’m not going to make any excuses for myself. You’re right. You’re very, very right. I was never any good for anybody. Not Jake and Abby, not Daphne. Everyone I ever said I cared about, I decided to stay away from so that I couldn’t hurt them or shame them,” Oliver said. “But, I want to be different. I thought that meant getting this lycanthropy thing under control, but its more. Its me. Its who I am. I need to be stronger.”  
“Can you be? Can you tell him what you did to all those people, in that garden? Who were they?” Marzia asked.  
“Victims,” Oliver said.  
Marzia took this in.  
“Tell him,” Marzia said. “If you feel that you belong with him.”  
“I don’t have to earn a place by Elio’s side. Its always felt right, with him. More than right,” Oliver said.  
“Elio can survive being without you. He just has to be brave and learn to love himself,” Marzia said. “If it comes to that.”  
“It won’t,” Oliver said. “I don’t know how, yet, but I’m going to be better.”  
Marzia’s face was slightly ironic, as if she was saying, ‘Well, if you say so.’  
Oliver was glad that Elio had a friend like her, even if they used to be lovers. She wasn’t heartless, she just wasn’t weak, or a fool, and she was protecting Elio.  
“Marzia, Oliver? Vimini’s ready to begin. She needs all of us on hand, to help her focus as she projects her consciousness out of her body,” Mathilda said, standing in the eaves of the kitchen door.  
“You found your Benandanti,” he said.  
“Yes,” she said. “But, I appreciate that you were willing to try.”  
They returned to the parlor, where Vimini was lying on the floor, a white flower pressed to her nose, wearing a white nightgown. Elio was sitting beside her.  
Oliver sat beside him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, held his hand.  
“You woke me up. I’d fallen asleep on the train, on the way here,” Elio said.  
“You saw my dream?” Oliver said.  
“Sort of. Were you touching yourself? Careful, don’t wanna go blind,” Elio said.  
“Shh,” Mathilda said, and took Marzia’s hand.  
Marzia flinched at first, then realized it was purely for ritual purposes. Oliver wondered what had made her so cagey around strangers. He didn’t dislike her, he wanted to prove to her that he could trust her.  
They all closed their eyes, and breathed deeply, not sure of what, exactly, would come next.


	34. Chapter 34

Mathilda handed the dusty book she had been reading when Oliver came downstairs. Marzia frowned in doubt.  
“You know the language, right?” Mathilda said.  
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” she said.  
It was clear that she wished Zelenia was there, to turn to. Then, she took the book, and read the prayer to the Goddess that was supposed to protect Vimini as her soul travelled like smoke, pursuing the Malandante. Her voice became more clear, and sure, and looked on.  
“What do we do?” Oliver asked Elio.  
“Concentrate,” Elio said.  
Vimini had been sniffing the flower that Mathilda and Oliver found, now it slipped from her grasp as she seemed to fall asleep. Her breathing was slow and even, her chest and stomach peacefully rose and fell. She looked so small and innocent, but they were all trusting her with so much responsibility. Oliver felt guilty, but also hopeful that this would work.  
They all felt something. Mathilda’s eyes widened, Marzia stopped reading, and Elio whispered, in Oliver’s direction, “Shh,” as if to stop him from talking, though he had been silent. It was Oliver’s mind that he was reminding him to quiet. Oliver thought back to the things Nzinga had taught him. There was no sting of shame as he did so. He couldn’t imagine what she thought of him, after he had abandoned the Fortress and gone away with Willem, but still he didn’t hesitate to use the things she had taught him. He saw stars-not the private lights of a headache of some sort, but a night blue sky, indigo dappled with stars. He could feel that the others saw this, too, and that they were present all around him, travelling with him, following the path of Vimini’s soul.  
Of course the language of the old legends was theoretical. There was no field, no witches riding rats, no brandishing of sorghum brooms. There was this, the starlit paths and wild spirals of the naked soul. How long did they travel, how far?  
Oliver felt himself come back to his body at the sound of a persistent knock at the door. Mathild blinked, becoming alert once more, and getting to her feet. She opened the door, and a naked young man covered in scratches fell over the threshold.  
“Well, this keeps happening,” she said.  
“Is it the Malandante?” Marzia asked.  
“He’s harmless, now. He was only confused. Like you, Oliver,” Vimini said drowsily.  
Elio blinked slowly. He helped Mathilda get the young man, the Malandante, inside, and Oliver drew nearer to Vimini.  
“You wanna hear something funny?” he said.  
She nodded.  
“Before you showed up, I kinda thought I was going to have to save the day,” Oliver said.  
“You?” Vimini said, as if the notion was ridiculous.  
“Yeah. Like a Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey kind of thing,” Oliver said.  
“Oliver, you’re not the only one on a journey here. Anyway, everyone did their part,” Vimini said.  
“Glad I could help, Maria,” he said, and she grimaced at her real name.  
Mathild and Elio drew the Malandante a bath, put him to bed, and Elio energy healed him. Oliver wasn’t sure how to help, and they seemed to have caring for the Malandante covered. Part of him didn’t want to get close to the other young man. He stayed with Vimini, and cared for her, until she said,  
“Oliver, you’re hovering. Go get some air.”  
Oliver stood outside, looking at the almost-full moon and the bright patch of sky around it.  
Elio came out to join him. Oliver smiled at the sight of Elio lit by moonlight. So many dreams, woven from fantasies of things they wish could be, memories, poetry, music, and now he was simply here. His arm brushed against Oliver’s, and he felt Elio’s warmth. He was real, and Oliver didn’t know what to say.  
“So much has happened. I think I’m afraid that you’re going to disappear,” Elio said.  
Oliver squeezed his hand. Elio closed his eyes, and smiled. He squeezed Oliver’s hand back.  
“How did you end up here?” They both asked at once. They laughed.  
“You first,” Elio said.  
“You,” Oliver said.  
“We had to leave. Marzia, Zelenia, and I. The village has become hostile towards my aunt. I was so oblivious. I never saw how people doubted her, and hated her for being different,” Elio said. “It all came to a head when I ran away. It made her look bad. She was replaced by a puppet, and even my mother believes awful things about her. She went in one direction, Marzia and I in another, and Claude and Fernando are going to try to weather it out, perhaps tell us when it is safe to return.”  
“But, the villa, the palazzo…everything is there,” Oliver said.  
“They’re just buildings. Building burn. They are torn down. They stand vacant and the earth reclaims them. What does it matter, as long as we’re alive?” Elio said.  
“But, it isn’t fair,” Oliver said.  
“It will be fine,” Elio said. “So, we came here, because we believed there were Benandante here.”  
“There are now, anyway,” Oliver said. “Mathilda’s father was an anthropologist, he was studying Benandante, but the last died while he was here. Then the Malandante came.”  
“An anthropologist…like you,” Elio said.  
“I’m not an anthropologist, really-it was just my half-hearted major,” Oliver said.  
“Then what are you, Oliver?” Elio said.  
The urge to say, ‘Your’s’ rose, but Oliver didn’t say it. He was so used to hiding, he forgot he couldn’t really hide from Elio. Elio stroked his hand with his thumb.  
“Where did you go, when you left the farm?” Elio said.  
“Willem took us to his aunt’s house. Dan and Jen, they’re lost causes. But they have each other. So, nothing’s really changed from when they were human. I was sick. His aunt, Freyja, she said that I needed you. Willem…had other ideas,” Oliver said.  
“What kind of ideas?” Elio said.  
Oliver looked away. This was why he hadn’t wanted to be anywhere near the Malandante, inside the house. He couldn’t even face himself, and the things he had done.  
But, he couldn’t run and hide anymore, the way he had done with his family, and Daphne.  
He showed Elio what haunted him.  
“Why did I do those things?” he said.  
Elio said nothing.  
“Mathilda thinks that the Malandante terrorize people because they believe its their fate. Like, a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Oliver said.  
“Possibly,” Elio said. “They have very different beliefs. We believe that they can’t control themselves, maybe they are just guided by different reasons.”  
“If that’s true, what about all the medication I was given, to control the virus?” Oliver asked.  
“The lycanthropy virus changes you, but you still get to choose who you’re going to be,” Elio said. “Part of you believed that you were capable of the things that you showed me, and that belief let Willem in. But, I don’t think its who you are. Just what you did.”  
“What about the future?” Oliver said.  
Elio smiled. “Who knows?”  
“And you can live with that?” Oliver said.  
“Yes,” Elio said. “What else is there?”  
Nothing was certain, and everything could change at any moment. Oliver hugged Elio, and they looked up at the almost-full moon.  
“I promise not to disappear,” Oliver said.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the next phase of the story! Elio and Oliver are going to meet other Benandante, explore the nature of the soulmate bond, and finally face Willem as they create a future together. Enjoy!

Elio leaned into Oliver’s chest, taking comfort in his solid warmth. Finally, after weeks apart, they were reunited again. It was only now that Elio realized that they had been interrupted at the beginning. There was much that they had to learn about each other. Yet, being together felt so vital.  
They went back to the farmhouse. Elio could feel the sleeping, peaceful heartbeats of the other inhabitants. Mathilda Woodville, who was curled up beside Marzia on the couch in a chaste cuddle, Vimini, who was asleep in a small bedroom, having neither dreams nor nightmares, drained from travelling the night air by astral projecting. Cristian, the Malandante whose soul she pursued, and coaxed to give up his ravening in the forests beyond the village, slept in another room. Elio had spent the evening tending him. Oliver avoided him, and called him ‘The Malandante’, never by his name. This made Elio uncomfortable. He had, until returning to his home village, been studying as a Healer. The “Network”, as the secretive body of supernatural hunters, detectives, archivists, and scientific researchers called themselves were not like the world’s nations, who recognized only citizens of their own states and imprisoned or discarded those who were not born on their soil. They helped people who crossed their paths.  
Elio could see a wall between Oliver’s heart and any empathy he might feel for Cristian. He was afraid that they were anything alike-wild things with the urge to hurt others.  
“What are you thinking about? You can tell me. We’re alone now-finally,” Oliver said.  
“I was thinking about Cristian. He must have been scared, out there alone,” Elio said.  
Oliver closed their bedroom door, and opened the window. Elio smiled, as he had forgotten how Oliver loved open windows. He liked to sleep with the window in their cottage at Casa Allegra, and the crisp early spring air had danced over their bodies. They had burrowed deeper under the covers and clung close to each other, reveling in the shared warmth. The air was warmer, now, and tinged with the pollen laced sweetness of trees in bloom. There was an overgrown, wild but fragrant orchard plum, cherry, and peach trees just beyond the farmhouse. It couldn’t be more different to the villa that belonged to Elio’s mother’s family, where he had lived from the time he was 13 to the day he left to find Oliver. The villa was humble but lovingly curated, whereas the orchard behind Mathilda Woodville’s farmhouse was a sweet wild place, seething with the music of bees, a slice of Arcadia where fauns might stalk nymphs.  
Moonlight lay on the bed like frost, but the snows of winter were past, the fasting of Lent had been broken, the largess of Easter a festive memory.  
Oliver picked up something from the bed, so small that it fit on his fingertip.  
“Must have blown in,” he said, showing Elio a tiny white petal on the tip of his thumb. It had come from one of the trees.  
“I was just thinking about the orchard,” Elio said.  
“Did it remind you of where you grew up?” Oliver said.  
“Sort of. Its so similar, but so different, too,” Elio said.  
“I’m sorry that you had to leave your home, again,” Oliver said.  
Elio sat on the bed. The moonlight touched his face and neck. It was warm, but with a cool edge, like something that could burn. He closed his eyes, feeling it touch his face.  
“Our goddess fell in love with a young shepherd, and graced him with moonlight every night,” Elio said.  
“Endymion. She put him in a magical trance so that she could be with him every night when the moon came out-otherwise they would always be on two opposite sides of time,” Oliver said.  
“Night, and day,” Elio said. Oliver sat beside him.  
“I hate what happened to my aunt, and that it was my fault. People can be so cruel,” Elio said.  
“Not everyone,” Oliver said. “I used to be really afraid of how cruel people can be. It feels like you have to protect yourself from what could happen-but you never take any chances that way. You convince yourself not to do so many things that you want to do.”  
“I can’t imagine you being that way,” Elio said. “You’re so adventurous.”  
Oliver laughed. “Sure,” he said.  
“You’re travelling the world, aren’t you? I’d call that an adventure. And you followed me down a random street, and met me at the palazzo, just because…well, I actually don’t know why,” Elio said, and smiled bemusedly. “Why did you follow me?”  
“You’re the one who said we were soulmates, remember?” Oliver said, reverently touching Elio’s hair, enjoying feeling it slip like water through his fingers.  
“Of course. But…what did you feel?” Elio asked.  
“Fishing for compliments?” Oliver asked.  
“Come on. Tell me?” Elio said.  
“I felt like someone I had been waiting for, for a really long time, was here. So, I had to catch up with you. That’s all,” Oliver said.  
Elio smiled.  
“You’re the reason I don’t think all people are cruel, anymore. And I don’t have to hide. I took a chance, yeah, but not because I’m brave. Because it was you,” Oliver said.  
Elio kissed him. He thought of Oliver’s earlier words, his promise not to go anywhere. Elio’s heart beat anxiously, as Oliver’s hands cupped and caressed his neck, his face. It wasn’t all the excitement of being touched by his lover. He was afraid that Oliver’s words, even if he meant them, would be rendered false by another twist of fate that felt like being punched in the gut. Willem was still free, and on the other side of the night was his connection to Oliver, his desire for Oliver, and his conviction that they should be together. More than ever before, he knew that he had to trust the lore of his people, the Benandante, that their souls met on invisible fields, in the air, in the space between stars, in the moonlight, and that their souls always knew each other when they met. Something instant and right and, they both believed, permanent had woken up and connected them when he and Oliver met. Elio wanted to trust that they would be happy, now, somehow.

He and Oliver lay side by side, their bellies touching as they kissed. Oliver cradled Elio’s face in his hands, and lovingly kissed him. Elio reached for the buttons of Oliver’s green shirt, and lovingly unbuttoned them, revealing the rusty auburn hair that covered his chest and belly. Oliver and Elio undressed each other. Moonlight poured in from the window, and an errant breeze blew in more petals. Elio smiled. It felt like his goddess had spoken, and kissed them with compassion. He surrendered to Oliver’s caress, to his kiss, to the feelings blooming in his body like a new season.


	36. Chapter 36

The cool spring wind caressed Elio’s and Oliver’s bodies as they embraced each other and lost themselves in a kiss. Elio relished the contrast between the cool air and Oliver’s warmth. Everywhere Oliver’s hands touched was a place that the air had stroked with benign cold, raising the tiny hairs on Elio’s arms to gooseflesh. He regretted so much of the way he had behaved since he turned eighteen, but he couldn’t regret leaving home to find Oliver. He felt whole and safe, against Oliver’s chest and belly, Oliver’s arms cradling his thinner frame. He caressed Elio’s back, and kissed him deeply.

Out of the corner of Elio’s eye, he was sure he saw the woman in the blue dress that had watched them make love, along with the other onlookers, the last night of the Carnival at the palazzo. The same blue taffeta dress smoldering in the moonlight like a dark sapphire, the black lacy mask on her face.   
Oliver didn’t notice. Elio swallowed his moans and the hot air of his gasping breaths. He felt Oliver’s erection against his stomach, weeping pearlescent beads of prefluid, and reached to touch him. Oliver’s hand enclosed his wrist.  
“I just want to worship you,” Oliver said, his voice earnestly plaintive.  
Elio smiled. Elio closed his eyes, as Oliver kissed his nipples, and his belly.   
“I’m sorry,” Oliver murmured.  
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Elio said, as he caressed Oliver’s shoulders and played with his hair.  
“If you knew what I did, Elio…..But, when I’m with you, I feel redeemed,” Oliver said.  
The woman at the window faded into the snowy moonlight, which seemed to brighten and swell. Elio closed his eyes, and let Oliver worship him. He didn’t know for what Oliver felt he needed to be redeemed, but he yearned to take the pain away. All he needed to do, to redeem Oliver’s pain, was to love, and let Oliver love him. This was what he had left the villa for, what he had crossed mountains and their eternal snows for.   
The wind and the moonlight caressed them, and Elio felt that the woman, whomever she was, was redeeming him and Oliver both. 

The next morning, Elio woke before Oliver. He decided that Oliver needed to sleep in. He didn’t know what had happened between Oliver disappearing from Casa Allegra and reappearing in the Benandante village under the care of Mathilda Woodville, but a heavy burden seemed to be bearing down on his mind. Elio wore Oliver’s University of Central Virginia sweatshirt, and hugged himself, reveling in the smell and feel of the sweatshirt. It would always remind him of their first days together. He headed downstairs, and found the Malandante, Cristian, standing at the foot of the stairs, looking at him expectantly.  
“Did you feel her? Did you see her? I came here to find her,” Cristian said.   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elio said.  
“Yes, you do. I can tell. I don’t know how, I can just feel it around you,” Cristian said. “The Goddess, she appeared to you, didn’t she? What did she see? She’s always just out of sight, for me.”  
Elio looked around, as if scanning for anyone who could overhear. He didn’t want to get embroiled in anything that he didn’t want Oliver to be dragged into. He may be older, but he was more fragile. He had dreams, deep thoughts, fantasies and ponderings. He was made to gaze at glaciers and clouds and think poetically, like the eighteenth century and Napoleonic era romantics he so loved. Elio hadn’t felt young and innocent since the psychic attacks of he Malandante first seized him. The pain was immense, the darkness was total, he was out of himself and locked within himself at the same time, and no one could stop it.   
But, he looked into Cristian’s eyes. He was a little younger than Elio, or possibly underfed and therefore smaller. He needed Elio to hear him, the way Elio had needed his mother to hear him back in the village, when she was under Massimo’s thrall. She had believed his campaign against Zelenia, and not Elio’s protests. He didn’t want to let Cristian down, that way.  
“I saw her before, at the palazzo, the night of Carnival. Oliver and I had noticed each other earlier that day, and we both…felt something. I asked him to come to the palazzo so that we could talk, and he did. She was there. I thought she was a guest. I saw her again, tonight, and I felt like we were….blessed by her. Redeemed. There are things Oliver can’t tell me about, things he is sorry for…I wish he would tell me, so I could give him the forgiveness that he needs,” Elio said.  
“She’s chosen you,” Cristian said.  
“She, who? I want to hear you out, but none of this is making any sense,” Elio said.   
“She is the goddess of the wolves. When I was bitten, the women in the village said that I would have to travel far, over mountains, along secret trails, to find her, and only when she chose to appear to me and give me her blessing would I find the lake, and the cure,” Cristian said.  
“Cure? A cure for the bite that made you a vargulf? The Hunters promised the same thing. Their methods might have brought some comfort, but Oliver is still a wolf. They weren’t able to cure any of the subjects at Wulfstan,” Elio said.  
Cristian shook his head. “Not that kind of cure. A miracle,” Cristian said.  
Elio was uncomfortable, but wanted to hear more.   
“The goddess of wolves summons those who are born Benandante to the fields of the night. But, she appears to those who have been bitten, who suffer, too. And, if you can find it, her lake heals,” Cristian said.  
“What is this lake?” Elio said.  
“Lake Artemisio, in the hills of Egeria,” Cristian said.  
“There’s no such place,” Elio said.

Mathilda Woodville appeared, holding a candle to shed some light into the early, still dark morning.  
“But, there are legends. Maybe the place referred to as Egeria can be found, and Cristian and Oliver can be cured,” Mathilda said.   
Elio and Cristian looked to her, waiting to hear more.  
“I think I know who can help us,” she said.  
“I’ve lived in this country all my life, and I’ve never heard of a place called Egeria,” Elio said.  
“That’s because Egeria is hidden,” said little Vimini, whom Oliver was carrying her in his arms. She was wearing a white flannel nightgown, and looked like a very big doll. Elio was slightly perturbed at Oliver-he had decided to let him sleep in, but he had woken up early, anyway.  
“You’ve heard this legend?” Elio asked.  
“Egeria was one of the goddess’s many names, and it is the name of her grove, in the hills above Lake Artemisio,” Vimini intoned in her sweet, crystal clear, melodic voice. Of course she, whom her people believed was a vessel of the goddess’s power, would know this story.  
“In Roman myth, Egeria was the name of a queen who was transformed into a spring, because of her tears. She was mourning her king, the gods had mercy on her grief, and she became a spring that was sacred to Diana and her nymphs,” Oliver said.  
“The Golden Bough-very good,” Mathilda said. “If anyone knows more about this, it will be my father’s friend, Patrick Greyshade.”  
“What a name-sounds like something from Harry Potter,” Oliver said.  
“Well, he is British, actually,” Mathilda said. “If there’s any archaeological proof that can pinpoint a geographical location that corresponds to Egeria, he would probably know.”  
“Could this really be true?” Elio said.  
He looked at Oliver, at hope and disbelief both in his eyes at the idea of a cure.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio feels like Oliver has a secret, and talks to Mathilda about what Egeria could be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is coming to a close! In the next chapter, the search for Egeria begins.  
> Thanks to everyone who's been here since the beginning. I love telling supernatural stories, but I feel nervous telling them. When I was a teen, shortly before the Twilight phenomenon, it wasn't exactly kosher to tell stories about vampires and werewolves. I caught a lot of flack from the adults around me, at home and at school, for reading Anne Rice, Laurell K. Hamilton, and other paranormal fiction authors. Those books were seen by my teachers and mom as either bad writing, or, worse, demonic and evil.
> 
> When I began writing as an adult, I still felt self-conscious. This story was my way of breaking out of that shell, and writing what I always wanted....and then it was criticized by a close friend, which spoilt my joy all over again.
> 
> Its been a crazy journey, but when I look at the comments that you all have left me about this story, here and on Tumblr, it makes me so happy, and gives me confidence and joy. I am so grateful! Thank you!!!!
> 
> If there is a story that you want to tell, don't worry about other people's opinion about it. If it makes you happy, go for it-you'll be happy that you did:)

Oliver’s mind roared with a cascade of thoughts. The word cure unleashed a barrage of thoughts, memories, and images. He saw the frightened doctors at Castel Wulfstan when he transformed for the first time in the lab, backing away from him with fear in their eyes, Jen’s naked body in the moonlit frost, and Dan’s pellucid breath as he, transformed into a Beast, assailed her prone body, and the frenzied carnage of the feasts of youths that Willem had brought to the garden. At that he felt a strong wave of nausea.  
Elio rushed to his side.  
“Maybe we should talk about this later,” he said.  
Oliver felt ashamed. Elio was always caring for him, rushing to comfort him or make the world softer for him. Elio was five years younger and they’d only known each other since March. He felt Elio’s hand on his shoulder, and flinched away, as if that could somehow reverse the events that had occurred since he was lured away from Elio’s side and bitten by Willem.  
He caught the alarmed look on Elio’s face just before his stomach heaved and he spilled the improvised pasta dish that Mathilda and Marzia had prepared for dinner all over the floor. He knew that it couldn’t be, but it felt like he was expelling what was left of his victims from Sybilla’s garden, and that just made him sicker. He was too weak to protest, this time, when Elio tried to lead him away.

Elio put him back to bed, in their room that was comfortably chilly. The scent of the blossoms from the fruit tree outside had faded, as if it had been an apparition.  
“I hate that you have to take care of me,” Oliver said.  
“Well, my job is to take care of people. Might as well be someone I love,” Elio said.  
“I also hate that someone is cleaning my puke up right now,” Oliver said.  
“What else do you hate? Get it all out of your system,” Elio said.  
“Its definitely all out of my system,” Oliver said.  
“Everyone knows that you’re ill. Its not a big deal,” Elio said. “But I do want to know what upset you back there. Isn’t a cure a good thing?”  
“Come on-you don’t really believe all that, do you?” Oliver said.  
“Mathilda seemed to,” Elio said.  
“Mathilda saved my life. She’s a boundlessly generous person. But, she’s….original. Unique,” Oliver said.  
“A little eccentric? I’ve noticed. But, she’s going through a hard time, which must account for a lot of it. Anyway, she and her father came here to study and find Benandante. That’s exactly what they found. If we exist, what else must exist?” Elio said.  
“That’s why you joined them, isn’t it? The Hunters,” Oliver said.  
“I heal,” Elio said.  
“And they taught you that. You wanted to know what else was possible,” Oliver said.  
“Mostly, I wanted to be close to you,” Elio said.  
“I can’t be your whole reason for making choices, Elio,” Oliver said. Elio didn’t know what he had done, and he felt a black curtain between them that only he could see and feel. Elio didn’t know of its existence, but Oliver felt it, and the curtain shuddered with each current of Oliver’s shame.  
Elio sighed. He sounded tired, but in his soul. “Stop,” he said.  
“You really believe that you saw something,” Oliver said.  
“You recognized the name. Egeria. So its not as if Cristian pulled this from out of nowhere,” Elio said.  
“I recognized it from The Golden Bough, this moldy old book written by an Englishman who didn’t travel; I had to read it in college. Excerpts of it. Begrudgingly,” Oliver said. “Egeria the nymph lived in Diana’s grove, with the goddess of wild things, the shade of the first king of Rome, and another king….I think he was in disguise, or something. But, do you really think there’s really some Fiddler’s Green where they’re all just sitting around presiding over a golden age? Its just a story. Who knows where he heard it. Some village healer trying to sell hope, I guess.”  
“I saw something tonight, and something that night at the palazzo,” Elio said. “I don’t know what Egeria is.”  
“But, you’re curious,” Oliver said.  
“And, you seem to be rejecting the idea of being cured,” Elio said.  
Oliver looked at Elio. The moonlight was a silver thread in his dark green eyes, and touched his dark hair with silver light, too. He was as beguilingly beautiful as when Oliver had followed him through the crowded streets of Elio’s native village, Lupa, through crowds of Carnevale celebrants, just to see him up close. The idea of talking to him, even, hadn’t concretely crossed Oliver’s mind, he was just a moon that had entered Elio’s orbit and was falling in line with the new gravity that guided him.  
“You don’t want to hope,” Elio said.  
“I just want…to be,” Oliver said. He wasn’t sure what he meant by that. Elio seemed to understand, and let his hand rest on his wrist. There was no need to speak. Their souls breathed in unison, restfully. 

Elio watched Oliver fall asleep. When Elio met Oliver, he was recovering from a great ordeal. When he locked eyes with Oliver across the square, at Carnevale, he felt a new era beginning in his life, one in which curiosity emboldened him, carried him on and on, closer to this new and fascinating person in his life. He knew he had gone very far, to be close to Oliver, but it felt like destiny.  
Though they hadn’t known each other long, Elio knew that Oliver was troubled. As he slept, his face took on a sweet serenity that it was missing when he was awake. He saw and felt Oliver’s worry, and there seemed to be something that he was holding back and wouldn’t say. The longing to confess lived in his eyes. The Romanian boy, Cristian, reminded him of his own ordeal, and he had avoided him. Elio could see as much, but there seemed to be something else.  
He placed a gentle, affectionate hand on Oliver’s stomach, and felt it rise and fall with his breath. He smiled, and then got up and went downstairs.  
Mathilda was sitting at the kitchen table, and the flame of a lamp filled the room with golden-orange light. It shone on Mathilda’s fair skin, and lit her auburn hair. She looked young, pure, and otherworldly, like an icon of a saint. She was surrounded by books.  
“What do you think Egeria is?” Elio said.  
“I don’t know. But, I want to know more,” Mathilda said. “If anything, maybe it’s a place where a certain plant grows, which might heal lycanthropy completely. There are herbs around here that are remarkably effective in treating it. Maybe that’s how legends about magical places start-there’s something about the place with a healing property, like a plant, a stone, or a vibration.”  
“That makes sense. I guess we’ll have to talk to Cristian more about where he was heading when he became ill,” Elio said.  
“Yes. And I have my father’s books,” Mathilda said. “And, there’s Patrick, and his partner, Sam.”  
“Partner?” Elio said.  
“Not a lover-they’re associates in a professional sense,” Mathilda said. “They belong to an organization called the Lupus Dei.”  
“That’s Latin,” Elio said. “Wolf of God.”  
“Mm-hmm,” Mathilda said. This all seemed very commonplace to her, Elio noted. “ Legend has it, it was once a monastic order whose members were all Benandante.”  
“I’ve never heard that,” Elio said. “But, the church persecuted Benandante.”  
“Not always. Anyway, they’re not connected to the Church any longer. They’re free agents. They study paranormal phenomena, and observe and document it,” Mathilda said.  
“Was your father a member?” Elio said.  
“I wondered that, too. I think he just stumbled upon the sort of things that the Lupus Dei also studies,” Mathilda said.  
“Do you think you’ll ever see him again?” Elio asked.  
“You’re very good at asking difficult questions. Everyone else has been tip-toeing around, trying not to ask me that,” Mathilda said, but didn’t answer. Oliver was right, Mathilda was eccentric, Elio thought, but he was comforted by her honesty and open mind. He had met so many people since leaving Lupa, and they had all taught him something, and he felt connected to them all.  
“Is Oliver feeling better?” she asked.  
“Physically, but his mind is troubled. There’s something he’s not telling me,” Elio said.  
“There must be a lot that both of you have to tell each other. You were apart,” Mathilda said.  
“Something happened to him. What was he like when you found him?” Elio said.  
“Sick,” she said. “But, there are herbs for that, around here, as I said.”  
“I mean….his soul,” Elio said.  
Mathilda bit her lip, considering this. “Hmm… I see. Much the same as now.”  
Elio nodded. Whatever happened, it had occurred when Oliver was in Willem’s hands. He thought when his mind turned to the Malandante, he would feel hate and blame. He didn’t, and was surprised. Had he ever hated Willem? Had he forgiven him? His heart had been so full of love for Oliver, and the intention to heal him, that any hatred for Willem had been washed away, as if caught in a wave being reeled back to the ocean by its own gravity.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenji and Vasquez catch up to Jen; Oliver and Elio experiment with trading roles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Thanks for hanging in there with this wild tale. I love and appreciate you! Xoxoxoxoxoxo!

Marauding werewolf covens in the Alps were nothing new. If anything, it was the traditional proving ground for young Hunters, to try themselves against the lonely stretches of Alpine forest and the icy witness of ancient glaciers, tracking wolves hungry for human flesh and blood. However, it was clear that this pack was new. They were too hungry, too aggressive, like vargulfs newly turned and abandoned by another wolf as rabid and mindless as themselves. Such strays were usually created one at a time, out of unfortunate strangers who had crossed paths with a monster. This band was too large.  
Kenji could handle it. When he told himself that he could handle something, he usually could. When he met his wife, Kelly, she was afraid that she had made too many mistakes in life to be good enough to love someone. He told her he could handle it. When she became sick, he promised her that he could handle that, too. In all honesty, being deployed to track the rogues was a relief. Castle Wulfstan was a tense place after the escapes of the lycanthropy study subjects. Some fresh air and something to kill would feel normal, after the abrupt outbreaks of disaster and the distrust and silences that rolled in afterwards like a tide of toxins spoiling a shore.  
The ritual of suiting up, adjusting all the protective guards on the gear the Hunters wore into battle was soothing.  
“Is that it?” Vasquez asked.  
Kenji looked at her.  
“All these years, and you never told me if that was, you know…It,” she said, looking at his sword.  
“Oh, that,” he said.  
“’Oh, that’,” she mimicked with gentle mockery. “The Masanori sword.”  
“There are lots of Masanori swords. It’s a brand name,” Kenji said.  
“It’s a family name, and you know which sword I mean,” she said. “The first one. Forged by the first Masanori.”  
“Why the sudden curiosity?” Kenji asked.  
“Because, I’ve heard some pretty fucked up fairy tales about that family heirloom of your’s-which may or may not exist, in the way of legendary ancient Japanese swords that no one is allowed to see in the light of day. Unless, of course, I’m looking at it right now. And, I kinda wanna know if that thing can do all the legends say, since I’m fighting at your side,” Vasquez said.  
“You think we’re outnumbered, and some mythical sword mojo can even the odds? The odds are as even as they’re ever going to be. We’ve got what we need. What’s going on with you, Nicole?” Kenji said.  
“Dude! Come on with the Nicole,” Vasquez said. She preferred never to hear her unambiguously feminine Christian name uttered aloud. “Look…if you have some dope as fuck Masanori magic hidden up your sleeve, now’s the fucking time to show it before we both get reassigned to Yetis in Siberia. We need magic, bro.”  
“I didn’t realize you were so desperate for glory,” he said.  
“The lycanthropy program was a bust. And your sister was apart of it. And…rumor is you got cozy with that werewolf kid. Emilio?” Vasquez said.  
“Elio,” Kenji said. “and rumor is both worthless and erroneous. We had a few talks.”  
In truth, the specter of Elio had lain softly on his thoughts. Softly, but not with ease, because in truth he had thought of Elio as something of a friend, and was surprised that he had left without telling him. But, he didn’t begrudge Elio the chance to run away with his beloved. His thoughts were with Elio.  
“Well, in light of the escapes, it doesn’t look good. I like that you don’t lean on your ancestry….but, now might be the time to remind the Commander and the rest who the fuck you are,” Vasquez said. “If you got some Masanori tricks….maybe you should pull ‘em out of your sleeve?”  
“Once, there was a war. A man made a sword, the war ended. This order was founded, and exists today. Maybe it all happened the way we were told, maybe not. Maybe this is that sword…I don’t know. The shadows of the past can’t help us,” Kenji said.  
“So, I’m an asshole for suggesting anything along these lines?” Vasquez said.  
“You’re not an asshole. You’re my partner,” Kenji said.  
“And I don’t want a new one,” Nicole said.  
They fistbumped, and went out to track monsters beneath the stars.

 

“What if Willem can be cured, too?” Elio said.  
He and Oliver sat on their bed. Oliver had been reading him Rumi out loud, and the opalfire light of a kerosene lamp’s flame filled their room and casted dark shadows. It made sharpcornered monsters out of ordinary objects like books and piles of clothes. Mathilda was not sleeping, researching the legend of Egeria, interviewing Cristian about all he had heard of it in his native Romania, and Vimini, as well, who had grown up with an insular version of the Benandante beliefs. Elio could tell that using the factfinding tools of anthropology animated her, made her feel closer to her father, or who she had been by his side, and took her mind off his absence. Just like assisting Vimini in astrally locating Cristian, having Egeria before her was a welcome distraction.  
For Elio and Oliver, it became an elephant in the room between them, a hulking silent presence in their small bedroom. 

“What made you think of him?” Oliver said, guardedly.  
Elio looked at him, detecting something in his tone, and a shadow in his eye.  
“Don’t you think of him?” Elio said.  
“As little as possible. I haven’t thought of you, enough,” Oliver said.  
“You don’t have to think of someone who’s here. We think of the absent. Its what thought is for. To recall the form and face of whoever isn’t here,” Elio said.  
“Are you quoting a passage from something, or is that one of your impromptu solemn speeches? Because I really love those,” Oliver said.  
“I really don’t love being patronized,” Elio said.  
Oliver opened his arms, gesturing for Elio to come closer. Elio ended up sitting on Oliver’s lap, his face on Oliver’s comfortingly hairy chest.  
“I’m not patronizing you, and I mean it-I haven’t thought of you, enough. I’ve been a fucking bumbler. Like, one of those eighteenth century novels like Tristram Shandy or Gulliver’s Travels, about how life is surreal and fucked up, takes you strange places, it goes on forever, and no one’s ever actually read it? That’s what the last two months have been like, but I realize it didn’t have to be. I should’ve been making my own decisions, instead of feeling like Willem had the power. And I should have thought of you, at the heart of all I decided,” Oliver said.  
“I can’t be your whole reason. We barely know each other. Maybe it wasn’t fair of me, to tell you what you were to me, and make you believe that we were bound to each other, before you understood all of this,” Elio said.  
“I believe in destiny, Elio,” Oliver said. “Its not just you.”  
Elio squeezed Oliver’s hand. Elio held onto Oliver’s hand, and reveled in the way his chin rested on Oliver’s shoulder.  
“I don’t want to think about Willem,” Oliver said. He stroked Elio’s back, loving the ridges of his spine beneath his smooth skin. Elio felt warm, warm from Oliver’s hands, warm from the way the glass lamp threw the heat of the flame dancing on the wick. “I only want to think about you.”  
Elio looked over at the window. The moon was dented, just like the night he and Oliver met. Soon, it would be full.  
“Do you remember the last night of the Carnavale? At the palazzo?” Elio said.  
“I remember you were wearing a puffy shirt. It reminded me of ‘Seinfeld,’” Oliver said.  
“Who?” Elio asked.  
Oliver laughed, and continued to stroke Elio’s back. He kissed Elio’s shoulder.  
“Okay, it wasn’t exactly puffy. Your shoulders…I remember the way it moved around your shoulders, and I wanted to kiss them so bad, because they seemed vulnerable and precious, like something that had been carved and could shatter,” Oliver said.  
“Oliver…I’m not going to break,” Elio said.  
Moonlight and firelight bathed them like a baptism, as Elio kissed Oliver. His spine tingled, anticipating the awareness of the Goddess’s apparition, like the last time they had made love. But, Elio didn’t feel the eyes in the air this time. He and Oliver felt utterly alone, their intimacy protected by the bubble of light, heat, and shadows around them. There was nothing, and he wondered if it was madness for them all to entertain the idea of Egeria as something serious. What was a legend, what was a fact, and how could they know? What was rational to pursue, and what must be put away with childish things? Elio’s own life, existence, and experience were enough proof that some legends were true. Souls traveled in the night air and those that appeared human could assume different shapes, so what else might be true.  
“Show me how to heal you,” Oliver said.  
“Who says I need healing?” Elio said.  
“I put you through a lot,” Oliver said. “A lot of fear, change, and running. I want to heal you.”  
Elio put his hands over Oliver’s. “I’ll guide you,” Elio said. “Close your eyes, focus on my soul.”  
“Okay, sure,” Oliver said skeptically.  
“You can’t feel any doubt. If I was hanging from a cliff, and you held your hand in my hand, wouldn’t you have to be absolutely sure that you can lift me up? It’s like that, every single time,” Elio said.  
“Is that scary?” Oliver asked.  
“Hell yeah. But life is bloody frightening even on clear, sunny spring days. Must we feel that we can do nothing? Fear doesn’t have to lead to doubt,” Elio said.  
“Oh, Elio. Your speeches,” Oliver said. “How do I do it? How do I see your soul?”  
“When we’ve met someone in our dreams first, we remember them. We share ancestors, Oliver, people who believe that certain things are bashert, destined. But, my mother’s people, the Benandante, believe in a place called the orchard of souls,” Elio said.  
“Orchard of souls?” Oliver said.  
Elio’s hands guided Oliver’s to his shoulders, and Oliver held the air around Elio’s neck reverently, while his hair tickled Oliver’s hands like the tendrils of willows skimming water.  
“It’s the place where our souls go when we leave our bodies. Where our souls touch, before we meet. You know me, Oliver. You always knew me. It didn’t seem to make any sense because in this world we don’t allow ourselves to feel as much. Or, we feel too much. We have these bodies, and they’re constantly reading the world from the inside out and tripping us up with delusions. But, on the plains of the soul we know each other, instantly, completely,” Elio said, as he guided Oliver’s hands along his body, leading him to caress him slowly. Even though Elio was the one in control, his skin was assailed with shivers beneath Oliver’s hands.  
“I think I see light,” Oliver said.  
“Good,” Elio said. “Let the light guide you. Just remember.”  
Oliver touched Elio as if his hands were listening to different instruments in the symphony of Elio’s soul. As he looked back, maybe he’d had dreams in which he felt that he wasn’t alone, but the patterns of the thoughts and the cares of the day had taken him away from whatever he had felt while sleeping. But, there must have been some reason that Elio had felt so familiar, and everything that had come before him had fallen away so quickly when Oliver followed him through the Carnavale crowd back in the village, Lupa. He couldn’t imagine what this place, the orchard of souls, looked like, but when he closed his eyes he felt Elio’s energy, waving like a meadow of flowers in synchronized tumult beneath the hands of the wind. It was the only thing that mattered, and he even forgot to be afraid that Elio could see his soul, marred by murders and wounds. He trusted the light, and the light was in Elio, and it guided his hands as they sailed Elio’s skin, feeling the pulse of light beckon to him and beg him to linger. Then another place would call out in yearning, and he would touch Elio there. He felt rivers of need beneath Elio’s skin, and saw the minute trembling around his mouth, his tensing brow, and the way the tension would build and then to relax to bliss. To heal Elio was to remember the terrain of his soul, where he had once walked. 

 

Kenji and Vasquez were covered in blood and snow. Their chests ached from breathing in the cold, Alpine air in the mountains.  
“When I was a kid, I always wondered what ‘take no prisoners’ meant,” Vasquez said.  
“No survivors,” Kenji said.  
“Right. But, a prisoner can come in handy,” Vasquez said. She and Kenji held onto either side of the handles attached to the bar cuff that restrained Jen. She was wild haired and wearing a strange assortment of clothes, filthy and smelled obscenely, primordially feminine, as if her lupine body now emitted strange and beguiling scents to lure potential victims into the deep forest. Jen’s violet blue eyes darted around her, looking at the hall of cells in the castle’s wet subterranean passages.  
“You didn’t have to kill them,” Jen said. “they were just kids.”  
“Don’t start confessing, yet-we haven’t even locked you up,” Vasquez said.  
“Don’t play with your food, Nicole. We’ll start questioning Jen soon,” Kenji said.  
“Daphne likes you. A lot,” Jen said. “Do you ever think about her?”  
“Don’t let her get into your head,” Nicole said. “She wants you to think of her as human.”  
“They are human, Nic,” Kenji said. To Jen, he said, “It looks foreboding, here, but its just another part of the castle. Sometimes the Dukes of Wolfstan even housed relatives here.”  
“To starve,” Nicole said.  
“To starve nobly,” Kenji said. “In the comforts of their station.”  
“What does that mean?” Jen said.  
“That with inherited power comes the privilege of tyranny, and it starts at home. Watch your head-people were shorter in the Middle Ages,” Vasquez said.  
Vasquez and Kenji got Jen situated in her cell, which wasn’t so different from the castle’s other drafty stone rooms, just windowless.  
She sat on the floor, crosslegged like a kid at the public library for story time, or someone meditating. Her beauty had gone wild, and her allure was disturbing. Her voice poured out like honey, soft and touched with that Mid Atlantic southern accent that reminded him of Daphne. Kenji wondered why it was that people he had known all his life, in some instances, the familiar faces of the fortress, were so insubstantial, while two people he had known so briefly, Daphne and Elio, were so frequently in his thoughts. Daphne’s eyes, full of anger and hurt, were always in the back of his mind. She had wanted to know him, and he didn’t know how that was feasible.  
Before they began to ask her question, Jen began to tell them her story. She and Dan, their days of abandon, and Willem’s indifference of them, which allowed them to indulge in the heated excesses that the moon’s rise occasioned. Willem seemed harassed and short of ideas, in need of protection, she recounted. It seemed he thought that Elio would follow Oliver, Oliver would return to his side, and together with Dan and Jen they could create other Malandante. This would insulate him from the possible aggression of his usurping uncle. There was something sad, Kenji thought, about the fact that Willem was a scared young man hurting others in hopes that they could protect him. His obsession with Oliver, however, betrayed a capacity for monomaniacal violence and possession that negated any flickers of pity.  
“He rounded up all these kids, tourist kids. I think he told them he had drugs,” Jen said.  
“That usually works,” Vasquez noted.  
“He made Oliver think he killed them-I guess like in a mob movie, where the new guy has to get his hands dirty. Like, now you can’t go back. But, it was just one those illusion thingies. If you focus, you can make people think things. It gives me a headache, I don’t like it. But, you know, I guess Willem has practiced a lot. I guess he never had anything better to do,” Jen said.  
Vasquez snorted a brief laugh before she could stop herself.  
“Yeah, she’s probably right,” she said.  
Kenji didn’t laugh at his enemies. They were closer to human than not, and one day they would have to die-where was the grace in laughing at them?  
“So, Oliver bit all these pain-in-the-ass trust fund baby spring break tourist kids, made them vargulfs, but thanks to Willem he thinks he’s a mass murderer? That’s fucked,” Vasquez said.  
“Then Oliver escaped,” Jen said.  
Some of the pack had scattered when the Hunters struck, others had fallen, and Jen was now a captive. Oliver, Elio, and Vimini were still missing, and were preferably to be returned to Castle Wulfstan. The lycanthropy program wouldn’t be renewed along the same trajectory after their rebellion. If they could be recovered, Kenji knew that the Temple would find some way to finesse the reasons and results of the study’s failure, possibly even getting rid of the faulty assets, the wolves.  
He hoped that they stayed free.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marzia and Oliver talk, bond, and they and Elio make a discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Lunar New Year! Enjoy! Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo!

Marzia stood outside the farm house, watching morning encroach upon the tree tops and the verdant land. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and faced the cold morning air as she watched the sunrise. The breaking dawn brushed the horizon with a triumph of colors: pinks, golds, and finally a pale white.   
She had woken up before everyone else, before the Romanian waif, Cristian, whose age was hard to determine, Vimini, Mathilda, the slightly mad anthropologist’s daughter, Oliver, and Elio. As she lay in her bed, she could hear them talking, on the other side of the wall. She sometimes heard sounds that were obviously passionate, as well. Letting Elio go was hard. There was certainly no one else like him in the village. The life of the village hadn’t shaped Elio, because he had grown up in Milan until he was 13, and because he was so immersed in the world of the Benanadante coven. She didn’t discuss the particulars of her life before as a way of protecting him from being tarnished by the violence and filth she had seen.   
Men in the village who took any notice of her did so predatorily-they were looking for a vulnerable girl, eager to impress, that they could seduce with compliments to her figure, or her cooking, corny jokes, a saccharine smile, and hints of money. Elio caressed her tenderly when they coupled, kissed her as if he was awakening a fairytale princess, and yet fully shared her appetites and never shamed her for them. He gave her the sonatas of Satie and Rachmaninov, the films of Fellini, Kubrick, and Kazan, and was an invigorating blend of sensitivity and passion. She had worn his affections with pride, that such a beautiful one could see beauty in her.   
But, she had felt it just as suddenly and violently as he had, when he met Oliver. Whatever souls were made of, his and Elio’s called to each other and belonged together. Mountains, Willem, being forbidden by Zelenia and Annella-none of those obstacles had stopped them from finding each other in dreams and in life. She had heard of such stories, but she didn’t know if she really wanted to be involved in such a consuming bond. She preferred the reassurance and warm safety of being apart of a family, as she had found with Zelenia, Claude, Fernando, Elettra, and Caro, and with the inhabitants of the farmhouse. If the consolation and confidence that she had felt with Elio was the most beautiful romance she was ever to have, she couldn’t imagine a more beautiful love.   
However, whenever Elio praised her beauty or her intelligence, or expressed happiness at being with her, she hadn’t wholly believed him. In fact, she had felt herself drawing away from him, inside, with a hesitation that she hadn’t felt in sharing her body, with him.   
She had realized that Elio loved her more than she loved herself. Because she knew that her stepfather despised her, was unsure of her mother’s love, and had a curiosity and open mind that the villagers couldn’t understand or relate to, she had punished herself by withholding self-love.  
Marzia looked up at the gently shining sun and its golden beams. Subtle warmth fell on her face. If she found herself beautiful and lovable, smart with a bright future ahead of her, would it feel the way this sunshine felt on her face? She no longer felt sad and frantic that no one would ever love her with the grace as Elio had. She had her perfect love with another, now she had to find that perfect love within herself.  
She looked back at the open doorway for a second and found Oliver. He was still handsome, but he had lost weight and had a grave expression in his eyes. She thought he was even more appealing. Almost like the prince of Vampires, Balthasar Luna, whom Zelenia had invited to the Carnavale ball, he looked as if sadness, contemplation, and resolve had made him more serious, but also more compassionate. He looked at her, now, rather than past her, like when they had first met. She felt more kindly towards him, too, since she was past mourning her romance with Elio.   
“Good morning,” she said.  
“How’d you sleep?” he asked.  
“I have to admit, I’ve been having strange dreams about what could be happening to Zelenia. I can’t help it, when I am worried, my mind races, and my imagination acts out in my dreams,” Marzia said.  
Oliver smiled, and his face looked younger and softer.   
“Elio’s right about you-he thinks that you have a way with words. I wish you could feel how much he respects you,” he said.  
Marzia laughed.   
Oliver protested, “No, it’s true.”  
“No, no,” Marzia corrected. “I believe you. And I believe in Elio’s feelings. I am just surprised to learn just how much is true. You can really see each other’s thoughts, and memories?”  
“When I was at the Fortress, we…communicated with each other that way. We spoke in our thoughts, and shared with each other things that we love. Music, poetry. Beethoven, Rumi, Shelley. Well, both Shelleys, Percy and Mary,” Oliver said.  
“That sounds beautiful, and very Elio. He is so generous. If he loves something, whether it is a beautiful work of art, or music, the taste of fruit or wine, he wants to share it,” Marzia said.  
Oliver nodded in agreement.  
He said, “It makes me wonder how I could have felt drawn to someone like Willem. He’s so different. He lies, he steals, he takes. I feel like an idiot, like I was superficial and an easy mark, for being fascinated by someone like that, even for a little while.”  
“I didn’t trust you, because you reminded me of my mother, the way that she trusted my stepfather so easily. I always felt like she allowed him to hurt me,” Marzia said.  
“Did he…?” Oliver asked.  
“Rape me?” Marzia said. “No, I used to thank God that he had no sexual interest in me. I knew girls like that, and I felt lucky, compared to that. He didn’t desire me, he despised me. I don’t know what he told my mother, but he had no interest in being a father to me. I was his rival-he wanted all of my mother’s attention. We didn’t eat dinner together she didn’t help me with my homework. He told me to let him spend time with his wife and kept her from me. I just stopped talking, stopped asking for anything, I knew that he had won. I stopped eating and speaking, and my grandmother called Donna Zelenia, to arrange a tarantella for me.”  
“Like, the dance?” Oliver asked.  
“The Benandante’s tarantella is far older. It is a healing dance. The word ‘tarantula’ comes from tarantella, because a young woman who had given up on life was believed to have been bitten by a spider. When I looked at the Benandante in a circle around me, when I heard the music they played for me, I knew that I hadn’t, as my mind had led me to believe, been keeping myself safe by shutting myself away from life, that I hadn’t been alive. But, I wanted to return,” Marzia said.  
“Like Emily, from ‘Our Town,’” Oliver said.  
“I read that play, at Fernando’s bookstore! When I had finished all the novels and poetry, I had to start on the plays,” Marzia said.  
“I was in a production of it. Very, very, very off Broadway,” Oliver said.  
“Oh, in New York City?” Marzia said.  
“No, in high school,” Oliver said.  
“Oh!” Marzia said. She couldn’t help it, she hadn’t expected a handsome man to be funny.  
“My father didn’t approve of theater, so there went that. Along with literature, and philosophy,” Oliver said.  
“It’s good that he can’t control you, now,” Marzia said. “You’re free.”  
Oliver looked at her bemusedly. “I never felt that way, even when I went to school in Richmond. I could still feel his influence,” he said.  
“It can be hard to change our minds. I know its hard for me to put the past behind me, to let go of my pain, and forgive. But, Elio helped me to do that, and seeing how much he loves you opened my heart. I changed my mind about you. Don’t doubt yourself, any more. You are strong, Oliver. You have survived so much. When you believe in yourself, you won’t allow men like your father and Willem control you,” Marzia said.   
Oliver held Marzia’s hazel eyes in his gaze, and she felt safe and whole staring into them. It wasn’t the gravity of sensual passion, but it was connection and affection. She squeezed his hand, and reached up to wrap the blanket around his shoulder. She was so tiny and he was so tall, that it made them laugh when she stood on her tiptoes.  
“You look like Victoria and Albert,” Elio said.  
Marzia scowled. “You promised you would never make fun of my height,” Marzia said.  
“May I share your blanket, too?” he asked. He reached for an edge of the blanket, and Marzia playfully yanked it away. She and Elio began a random dance; he reached, she evaded, skipping around to avoid him. They laughed, and so did Oliver, and all three of them felt young, free and together in a joyful moment.   
Marzia turned her back to the morning, and ran back in the farmhouse, through the kitchen. Forsaking the childhood admonishments of all their parents, combined, they ran up the stairs, Elio in pursuit of Marzia and Oliver for sheer abandoned joy.  
They tumbled onto Elio’s and Oliver’s bed, and he tickled Marzia. She laughed merrily at being subdued, and Oliver caught a glimpse of the closeness they must have shared before he came into their lives.   
“Let her up,” Oliver chided Elio affectionately, although watching them playfully writhe had been sensually fascinating.   
“You are so gallant, Oliver,” Marzia said. “I can’t believe we acted so silly, like this.”  
“It’s the moon. It will be full soon. The third since you have been in Italy, Olive, and your second as one of us,” Elio said. “it tends to make us wild.”  
He held out his hand, and beckoned to Oliver. He joined them in bed, and Elio ended up sandwiched between Marzia and Oliver. He looked like a rosy-lipped, curly haired, bright eyed Dionysus whom Oliver and Marzia both regarded adoringly. They looked at each other, and could tell that they were both thinking and feeling the same thing, that they could deny him nothing. Oliver felt a memory rise in his mind like something floating to the surface of a dark lake:   
He could feel the warmth of sunwarmed grass beneath his back, and he heard the murmur of a flowing creek and the happy music of birds. The air smelled like ripe fruit from the nearby orchards, and lavender at its most robust bloom in mid-spring. Oliver felt the tickle of a cotton sundress rising along his legs. His legs were smooth and shaved, and his surprise at this was usurped by the feeling of Elio’s hands caress his thighs. Elio stood on his knees, regarding the body before him, and his shoulders, face, and hair were touched by sunshine. Elio’s eyes were full of radiant love, but his lips were set in a sensual pout that spoke of arousal. His breathing betrayed it, too, Oliver felt wanted and ready, love swelling in his chest in answer to what he saw in Elio’s eyes.  
Oliver realized that this was Marzia’s memory, and he was experiencing something that she had, with Elio. This was heady knowledge, but he surrendered to it. It was just one more transformation. They kissed, and every other thought flew from Oliver’s, and Marzia’s mind. He could feel her bad memories and pain fly away like a flock of startled birds. He felt the careful, tender love in Elio’s kiss, but also ardent desire, and the combination opened his heart.  
He knew what it was like to feel Elio within his present body, but this time he experienced it through Marzia’s body. He felt his body as pliant, wet, and soft as ripe fruit, open and yielding to Elio, but then becoming tight and hungry around it and kissing him, embracing him deeper within….

Oliver opened his eyes. Sensual frissons rocked his spine, and his face was dotted with sweat, as he emerged from Marzia’s memory, which her mind had shared with his. He looked over at Elio, and Marzia.   
“Did I just see…your memories? I thought that could only happen with Willem, because he bit me, and Elio because we were soulmates. What does this mean?” Oliver said.  
“Maybe its because Elio’s here,” Marzia said. “Some kind of…chain reaction?”  
“No, Marzia, its you. I think you are a Luna,” Elio said. “Mafalda and Zelenia thought so, too.”  
“What’s a Luna?” Marzia said.   
Oliver, still recovering his breath, and Marzia both inclined towards Elio for an answer.  
“As you know, each coven has a Donna, a woman who is its leader. A Luna is someone who is born to the role, who has a highly developed intuition and is connected to each member of the coven,” Elio said. “Marzia, you must be our Luna. That means that you, Oliver, and I, are a coven. It was meant to be.”  
“No, I’m not anyone special, Elio. I don’t come from the right family, like Chiara and Matteo. Growing up, I thought I was different and would grow up to leave, go to the city, be successful, but I see now that its not that easy. If I wasn’t a Benandante, I don’t know what would have become of me,” she said.  
“You see? This is your destiny. You were always meant for us,” Elio said.  
“But, how can we be a coven, when Willem was the one who bit me? Where does he fit into all of this?” Oliver asked.  
Marzia reached out her hand to him, as she had done outside. “Covens protect each other. Fate puts good things and bad things in our path. He is part of your destiny, but we are meant to be by your side, too.”  
Oliver looked into her eyes, and he could tell that Marzia had seen his shadows. She accepted them, and they would talk later. She turned to Elio with a bemused smile, and said,   
“Admit it, this fulfills your fantasies, doesn’t it? Both of us?”  
“Marzia, you’re lovely, don’t get me wrong, and I do feel drawn to you, but it doesn’t feel sexual. It’s strong, its definitely sensual, but it feels deeper than that,” Oliver said.  
“I admit, I did dream of something like this. That you were the Goddess who watched us during the Carnavale ball at the Palazzo. Now, I know what it meant,” Elio said. “There is much for us to share.”  
“Do you think this has anything to do with Egeria?” Oliver asked. “Maybe if we are all together, and know what we mean to each other, it will somehow help us find it. If all of us are worthy, I mean.”  
“Worthy? What have you ever done to be kept away from the Promised Land, Oliver?” Elio asked, and lovingly caressed Oliver’s face and hair. Marzia gave his hand an affectionate squeeze.   
She had seen the attack on the innocents at Sybille’s lakeside mansion-as Oliver remembered it. But, she had a feeling that his memory wasn’t clear and planned to talk to him when Elio was not around. It would always be her instinct to protect Elio. If she was their Donna, their Luna, Marzia was glad that destiny had not only sanctioned but ordained that she protect him, and Oliver.   
Sunshine and shadows cast themselves on the bed, on their arms and faces. Elio, Marzia, and Oliver looked at each other, absorbing the change. These new words-Luna, coven-and a new understanding of each other dawned on them, and they became new in each other’s eyes. Whatever happened with Egeria, a possible cure, and Willem, they would be together as a family.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a detour from the main action...When Oliver's little sister, Abbey, arrives in Virginia, Daphne has to field questions and also discovers a connection between Oliver's family and the Benandante.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story about Oliver's father's family protecting Jewish refugees is based on the Thalhimer family, Virginia real estate developers and retailers. For storyline purposes, I moved their story to Connecticut.
> 
> Here is a link to information about the statue whose unveiling Daphne attends, Rumors of War by Kehinde Wiley:  
> https://www.vmfa.museum/about/rumors-of-war/

Applause rang through the crowd gathered on the green of the sculpture garden as the crane began to lift the white sheet that had been covering the statue for months. The sky was cataract gray, and a smattering of rain fell, as it so often did in Central Virginia between September and March. But, the unveiling went on, as events usually did. It was practically a tradition for the National Folk Festival to be on a rainy weekend. Daphne looked forward to the rhythm of life in her home state, its festivals and attractions. She had been eager to show Oliver all of these things, but now she wondered how much of their relationship he had been faking. It was only his unhappiness, it seemed, that Oliver couldn’t fake. What about dancing to Cowboy Mouth at the Neptune Festival at Virginia Beach (in the rain, of course-the English settlers must have felt right at home when they landed), and linking hands in a circle around an ancient tree in Buckingham with others protesting Dominion Energy’s Atlantic Coast Pipeline? Or even just eating lemon chess tarts from Ukrop’s bakery with their fingers in Monroe Park in between classes on a rare sunny day? Had their happiness ever aligned, or had she just been a smiling fool all the while?  
She told herself she was the one trying to devalue her and Ollie’s good times to distract herself from what she felt even worse about: Kenji Masanori’s accusation that she pursued men she found exotic to rebel against traditional Southern values.   
The applause turned to groans. The sheet was stuck! She looked around to gauge if the other spectators were as embarrassed as she was. She tried to see the face of the artist, Kehinde Wiley, who generally had an air of unflappable hipness. Why not? He had painted Michelle Obama-he might have been the biggest star of modern art that had ever set foot in Richmond. Surely he wasn’t freaking out in the inside because the sheet was stuck on his sculpture, “Rumors of War”, which had already been exhibited in Time’s Square.   
If the damned thing didn’t lift, it would be about as embarrassing as the mayor’s descent from a young idealist promising to reform public housing and education to an indecisive double-dealer who’d fucked up city parking. What was wrong with Richmond? It was always one step forward, two steps back.   
Was Kenji right about her? Had she been attracted to men who reminded her of anywhere else?

The sheet finally lifted, and the applause began in earnest. The statue was unveiled-it was modeled after one of the contentious statues that lined Monument Avenue, fixtures of Daphne’s childhood she had seen every time her parents took her to the petting zoo or botanical gardens at Maymont Park, but with a subversive twist. The figure in bronze was a young African American man in modern dress, with braided hair, astride a muscular horse triumphantly rampant like the original statue of a Confederate general. It was in line with the artist’s signature motif, portraits of modern African Americans in historical settings like Renaissance or Baroque art. This time, the image struck at the heart of the currently divisive issue that the monuments had become. “Rumors of War” was to be permanently displayed at the museum, in the former capital of the Confederacy.  
Daphne regarded the dark bronze against the gray sky. What did the art mean in the life of the city? What kind of person was she, really? She had always thought she was decent, but had that just been rebellion? She felt so unsure after her trip to Italy.  
She didn’t feel like sticking around for any more speeches from the artist and museum administration.  
Daphne adjusted her umbrella and was about to head to the observation deck at the top of the waterfall stairs.  
“Daphne!”  
She turned around. She recognized the teenage girl who had called her name, but vaguely in a way that she couldn’t place. Strangely, a lot of people in Virginia looked alike, so she shook the sense of familiarity off. Her first guess was that she was some sort of school reporter who needed reaction quotes from the crowd…but, no, that couldn’t be right because she had known her name. Then, she placed her face.   
Abbey Wolfstan didn’t look much like her brother, except for a certain set of their eyes that conveyed an instant trustworthiness.  
“Abbey? What are you doing in Virginia?” Daphne asked.  
On her trips to Connecticut, as few as they’d been, she’d found Abbey to be shy only at first. She warmed up when asked about herself. She hadn’t thought she’d be quite this intrepid, however, as to board a bus or train to another state, miles away. She doubted that her parents knew: Mr. Wolfstan was an ambitious lawyer with control issues, and Mrs. Wolfstan had lost her voice and identity without him somewhere around her sophomore year of college if Daphne had to guess.   
“Where’s my brother?” Abbey said without preamble. She really did have guts, and that had Daphne’s respect.  
“Abbey, do your parents know you’re here? Something tells me they don’t,” Daphne said.   
“My dad’s in the city-where else? And my mom-who knows? There’s your question. Now how about mine?” Abbey said.  
She was overwhelming Daphne with questions she knew she would probably lie about, trying to make her spin into butter to come up with cover stories. Daphne wanted to be a human rights attorney one day-it was clear that Abbey wanted to be a prosecutor.  
“Abbey, I’m a little confused here. You came all this way to Richmond, to ask me about Oliver. But, I’m sure you know that we broke up. Are you saying you haven’t heard from Oliver recently?” Daphne said.  
“Those emails were not my brother,” Abbey said. “They didn’t sound like him. They sounded like some pretentious, preppy, wine guy travel blog. Oliver doesn’t give a damn about tourist attractions and the weather. Someone else wrote them.”  
“Abbey. Come on,” Daphne said.  
“Things like that happen! I saw a story like that on Dateline, once,” Abbey insisted with a slight whine.  
Eureka! Being doubted and dismissed had brought her down from righteous indignation to teenage petulance at not being taken seriously. Daphne felt relieved that she had Abbey at least a little unbalanced. She had already figured out that whatever communication the Hunters had faked between Oliver and his family to make them believe that he was taking a gap year to continue to travel in Italy was just that, fake.   
“Oliver’s fine, Abbey. But I’m concerned about you, travelling alone like this,” Daphne said. “especially not to pursue this theory that something’s happened to Oliver.”  
Abbey looked furious and betrayed as only a teenage girl can. Daphne missed it, almost. When had all that fury cooled into confusion? No one knows their mind, and what’s wrong and right, noble and inglorious, like a young girl.   
“Something happened in Italy, didn’t it? Maybe Mom and Dad don’t care, but I do. Oliver isn’t like them. He’s…” Abbey struggled to find a word to describe her brother. Daphne knew the feeling. Oliver had a barely subdued melancholia in his eyes that suggested sensitivity and maybe wisdom.  
“Yeah, I know,” Daphne said fondly.  
“Our grandmother used to say that he had a Viennese temperament. That he was like her big brother’s college friends who used to listen to classical music and read these trippy German books about magic and Atlantis and stuff,” Abbey said, in that tone teens adopt when confiding something embarrassing about their families that they secretly find interesting. “I think, you know, something bad happened to her brother. The war, you know? So, Oliver was her favourite. But, he needed to be somebody’s favourite. Dad doesn’t respect him. He worries about him too much to respect him. He wants Ollie to be somebody, you know? You’re somebody or you get lost in the shuffle. He’s always talking about ‘making it’. If you don’t make it, its like you just don’t exist.”  
“They’re very different men,” Daphne said. “I always worried that it was a weight on Oliver’s mind, the tension with y’all’s father.”  
“Is that why he doesn’t want to come back to America?” Abbey said.  
“No, Abbey. I think he’s just taking some time to sort things out, and to be in a place that inspires him. Now that I look back, I see that he’s always been searching for some kind of muse to help him focus his thoughts and his energy,” Daphne said.  
“Daphne…something feels off,” Abbey said. “I can’t stand to hear Dad talking about Oliver like he finally did the drastic, irresponsible thing he always suspected he’d do. I have to know for sure what’s going on, and nothing is adding up. Why did you break up?”  
The rain could fall all day the way it was falling then, in a sparse smattering that was annoyingly cold when it hit the skin.   
“Let’s go inside and warm up,” Daphne suggested.   
Looking at Abbey brought home that she had been helping the Hunters lie to Oliver’s, Dan’s, and Jen’s families about what they had become. She realized that was the oppressive weight and the source of the frustration that she’d felt since returning to Italy. Was it right to give Abbey the answers she wanted? It would only pass the burden on to her that Daphne carried, knowing things that she could never speak about to anyone that she knew.  
She’d felt so close to Kenji, maybe because he helped her understand what was happening to her and her friends. He’d shattered that closeness with his accusations and dismissal of her. Who and what would Abbey turn to if Daphne told her about the wolves?  
Daphne and Abbey walked by the ticket desk, the restrooms, and the gift shop where one could buy kitschy treasures like miniature terra cotta Imperial warriors, Tibetan mandala postcards, Faberge egg bracelet charms, and various coffee table books about the museum’s permanent collections. The museum housed a restaurant upstairs, a place for a nice dinner, and a café overlooking a koi pond and the sculpture garden. Daphne ordered two slices of pizza and two extra spicy German ginger beers for herself and Abbey. Abbey had become subdued but was clearly waiting for her answer, and also seemed exhausted. Kids get tired of fighting. All they really want is to be heard, understood, have the answers they need explained in a way they can understand, and to be trusted with challenges-for someone to be there when they need it, and to let go when they need that, too. Only when these needs weren’t met did they become difficult, but their aims were so pure, were they not still innocent even in their fury?  
Abbey was spent of her fury. She and Daphne sat on the veranda overlooking the pond, and the sculptures-one humble Rodin, and some modern pieces on the oak shaded lawn between the museum and the Confederate History Museum. Daphne was more aware than ever, now, of her city’s legacy of violence and apartheid. The orange koi darted between the roots of red LED installations in the reflecting pond. Abbey bit open her soda and made a face as she drank it.  
“Very spicy,” Daphne warned too late. She had decided what she was going to tell Abbey. Not about the wolves, Willem, the Hunters, the Fortress, or Oliver’s illness.  
“Now you tell me,” Abbey said, and stuck out her tongue to cool it off.  
Daphne allowed herself a laugh. Abbey had darker features than Oliver, but she had his amiability and wit.  
“Abbey…your brother and I broke up for the same reason that he decided to stay in Italy,” Daphne said. “He met someone.”  
“Like, he has a new girlfriend?” Abbey asked. “That’s weird. You guys have been together forever, and Dad really thought he was taking you to Italy to propose to you. Mom didn’t really agree or disagree with him, but she seemed to kind of cautiously wish that was the reason.”  
She was so smart, in a way that reminded Daphne of Oliver, too. He had seemed so in tune with the emotions of the people around him, which made the extent of his confusion and dishonesty surprising.   
“We went to this little town in Friuli-Venezia-Giulia, little ways outside Slovenia. It was beautiful. They were having a festival for Carnival season, and we met a lot of lovely people. One of them was this boy called Elio. He’s from an old aristocratic family-they even have a palazzo. He and Oliver got really close, really fast, and….we talked everything out, you know? He’s decided to stay, and be with Elio,” Daphne said.  
Abbey, prepared this time, took a sip of her ginger beer.  
“You mean, Oliver is in love with a guy?” Abbey said.  
“I think he’s figuring out how to tell your family. He just needs time,” Daphne said. “Maybe that’s why his emails didn’t sound like him.”  
“That…kind of explains everything,” Abbey said. “He’s always happy to see us, and I love spending time with him, but there’s always this feeling I get between him and Dad when he’s home. Even when he brought you. That he can’t really come back home, not for long. Anyway, he’s lucky. Dad has no morals. How can he work for a man like that?”  
Daphne knew what Abbey was referring to. Oliver’s father’s most important client was a corrupt real estate developer with political aspirations and underworld connections. She shuddered to think just how deep that labyrinth of New York City money went, and the things Abbey really knew about her father’s “business.”.   
“Dad thinks that Oliver is weak. That the only way to make it in this country is to…I don’t know, swim with sharks or something. I like that Oliver just wants to swim, in his own private ocean,” Abbey said.  
“Well, down here we respect common sense. Its just common sense to swim away from sharks,” Daphne said.  
Abbey lifted her ginger beer bottle and Daphne lifted her’s; they toasted.  
“I wish he could have, like, texted or messaged me, or Jake, and told us everything,” she said.  
“I know, honey. But he’s dealing with it himself and finding the words,” Daphne said.  
“Are you angry at him?” Abbey said.  
Daphne shook her head vehemently. “I love him too much. I’m glad he’s found something to hold him to this world. He was fading away after your grandmother died.”  
Abbey’s face took on a sad smile that was much too grave and wise for a sixteen year old girl.  
“She was…so different from the rest of the family. She was almost magical. She’d tell the most amazing stories. When she was in the hospital, she told me that her and her sister went into hiding at this farm in northern Italy, owned by these people who could heal any illness or wound with their hands, see visions, protect people from witches, and turn into wolves. They were a family called….hmm, what was it…something with a ‘B’…Benante, or something?” Abbey said.  
“Benandante?” Daphne said.  
“Yeah, that was it. I guess she told Oliver, too. Anyway, my grandfather’s family was trying to, like, do good deeds and help bring people to America. It was actually hard to leave Germany and Austria, at that time. France and the Netherlands, too, eventually, but they managed to bring some people over, to this farm they owned over here. They said they were all laborers. One of them was my grandmother, and her and my grandpa fell in love like Ruth and Boaz. I can tell Oliver always wanted to really love someone like that. Here we all were, thinking it was you,” Abbey said.   
She was just as Daphne had remembered, effusive and open once trust had been established.   
“Well, I thought it was me, too. But Elio is a gentle person. I trust him,” Daphne said.   
“Thanks for telling me everything,” Abbey said.   
“I’m going to have to call your parents, Abbey. Is there a good time to call, when I’ll only reach your mother? She can decide how much she wants to tell your father, if she wants to tell him at all. I’m guessing some nights he doesn’t come home to Connecticut,” Daphne said.  
“You guessed right,” Abbey said. “I wish my dad could be a gentle person. Like Grandpa. Like this Elio that Oliver’s fallen in love with. Like Oliver.”  
“James Dean said that only the gentle are ever truly strong. Maybe one day your dad will be strong enough to be gentle. Right now, it seems like he’s afraid of failure,” Daphne said.  
Abbey nodded, taking this all in. She and Abbey finished their small meal and then left the museum, and drove to Daphne’s apartment. The familiar townhouses of the Museum District passed by as she drove, and Daphne contemplated all that Abbey had told her. The stuff about their father was no surprise, she had seen that for herself, and the story about her grandfather’s family playing a part in protecting her grandmother from the Shoah was intriguing, as well…but what about the other bit, about the Benandante? Abbey couldn’t have known the connection. It seemed they had also played a role in protecting Northern Italian and, in the case of Oliver’s grandmother, Austrian Jews from deportation. That fit with their view of themselves as protectors of humanity from the forces of evil. 

Was it fait accompli that Oliver would fall in love with a Benandante, all those years later? She thought of Rainier Maria Rilke’s words,  
“Lovers don’t just meet somewhere; they’re in each other’s hearts, all along.”

When they got home, Abbey fell deeply into a nap, as a stressed-out teenager is wont to do. Shortly after their arrival, a deliveryman with a package knocked on Daphne’s door. She signed for it and opened it. She found a journal whose cover was made of woven bands of scrap silk, and its rough, lineless pages smelled like bark and almond blossoms. The paper looked handmade. A note fell out of it which read, ‘Himalayan black daphne’. That must be what the paper was made out of. She had never seen his handwriting, but somehow she knew that it was a gift from Kenji.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenji and Nicole mobilize to protect Elio from a new threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks from the bottom of my heart for continuing to come along with me on this crazy journey of love and werewolves somewhere in Northern Italy. And speaking of Northern Italy, my heart goes out to this special region. Love and light to everyone in Milan and the surrounding area!

Kenji couldn’t help it: he always had to do a double take when he looked at his sister Sakurako. The first thing he saw was always a toddler in a fusty Christmas dress, with a haircut that curved just so around her round face. But, that was just his sentimental big brotherly instincts-Koko wasn’t a child anymore, and had grown up to be an amazing person who was kinder, stronger, and more resourceful and patient than him. She was the perfect Healer, in his opinion, able to care for others but make hard decisions. However, for all her inner strength Kenji could tell that she was nervous. He made a show of gallantly pulling out her chair for her, and she smirked.  
“You were never that nice to me when we were kids,” Koko said.  
“What? It’s a round table-I have to be chivalrous,” Kenji said.  
“For once in your life-you put gum in my hair!” Koko said.  
As Kenji recalled, he’d had his Pokemon cards confiscated for this infraction, and as a result found out who his real friends were for the weekend-his friends had seemed far less enthralled with his rock tumbler. In his estimation, he’d suffered adequately.  
“Will you ever forgive me?” he asked.  
“How can you live with yourself, is the question,” Koko said.  
For now, their banter had distracted her from their august settings. The room in which they were in was used for meetings between the Hunters and the Imperator, or Commander of the Fortress. The walls were covered in oil paintings and tapestry, but the most striking feature of the room was the table which Kenji had indicated. It was round, after the fashion of the mythical King Arthur’s and for the same purpose-so that everyone seated there would have equal right and time in speech, no concerns of rank would be given more weight than the substance of what was said. Still, to be at the round table at all could be enough to intimidate a member of the Network who was used to merely doing their job, whatever role they played in keeping the great wheel of life at the fortress turning. Koko was concerned for her charges-by any estimation, the lycanthropy experiment had been a failure. Out of its sum total seven participants, only Barbara seemed to have benefitted and resumed her life in Canada. Jen, Elio, and Maria Teresa had escaped, and Isaac’s dementia was profoundly advanced.  
“What do you think is going to happen?” Koko said.  
“Mounir is recovering, right?” Kenji said.  
“No one is going to agree to continue a study for one subject. That money could be put towards…I don’t know, more bullets, or something,” Koko said dismissively.  
“We don’t just shoot things,” Kenji said.  
“Well, you certainly don’t have heart to heart conversations with them, either,” Koko said.  
“That’s not how you deal with monsters,” Kenji said.  
“See? That’s what I mean. That’s how Hunters think of supernaturals, and Hunters are the ones in charge. As long as that mentality prevails, programs like this one are going to keep being shuttered, all the paperwork stamped and filed away, with a ‘Well, we tried it’ shrug, and everyone goes back to thinking for another generation that werewolves are bad, instead of sick,” Koko said.  
Idealism was a dangerous temperament. When its convictions about how things ‘should be’ are frustrated by how things are and likely to remain for some time, idealism can turn from the burning zeal to do good works to smoldering scorn for the world and cynicism towards all that might be hoped for. Kenji would hate for Koko to turn out that way, all her intentions to help others and do good ruined by those less imaginative, and life’s ‘slings and arrows’.  
For himself, he had few hopes. He vacillated between wanting to die in battle, then actually going into battle and wanting not to die so that his brother and sister, and his parents in Hawaii would have no cause for pain on his behalf. He wanted Daphne, a girl he had known for a few days in a village between Italy and Slovenia, to have a happy life.  
“Go with that! ‘Bad, not sick,’” Kenji said. “That’s the lead, the thesis.”  
“Its not a paper. I have to talk, out loud, and convince the Imperator that we should keep trying to give lycanthropes medicine, when its easier to kill them. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing these past few days-killing infected lycanthropes? They used to be human. I’m not judging you. I mean, this is just how things are,” Koko said.  
Guilt washed over Kenji like a dirty wave. He was used to it. He had to forget it, in a blink, to continue facing his sister.  
“Most of them are being contained,” Kenji said.  
“Oliver bit them,” Koko said, and Kenji knew what she meant-that was truly it, for the experimental treatments administered in the study, that one of its subjects had escaped and infected others. Science had yet to demystify why and how it was lycanthropy could be both an inherited trait, and yet passed on virally. Nature was resilient and secretive. For all the medicines in all their forms that science had devised, still there were patterns that could not be deduced, strange beauty, and resilient disease. Only inherent, collective hope kept humanity striving to preserve what was beautiful, map what is elusive, and cure what had not been cured before.  
“Not exactly,” Kenji clarified, hopeful that this would encourage Koko. He explained that Willem had infected some of the vargulfs, hunger crazed wolves in the thralls of the infections first weeks, and led Oliver to believe that he had killed all of them.  
“Why?” Koko asked.  
“We think it was a headgame-to make Oliver feel that he was hopeless, and stay with him,” Kenji said.  
“What could that mean for the program? Oliver still escaped and joined the Malandante, and hurt humans,” Koko said.  
“You did the best you could, and you weren’t alone,” Kenji said.  
“Don’t,” Koko said, and it was one of those moments wherein Kenji realized afresh that Koko was grown up. She was no longer so easily convinced of anything merely because he said it was so. The precedence of birth was yet another hierarchy that dissolved at the table.  
Koko had tried to do something rare and admirable. Its failure was all that she could see, now, but what Kenji saw was that it was her instinct to try. That was impressive and admirable for its own sake.  
Before he could try again to console her, Nzinga and Diana walked in.  
“Where’s the Imperator?” Koko asked anxiously.  
“Otherwise engaged,” Diana said, but added, “His decision, however, is already made.”  
“Typical,” Koko griped. Kenji admired her nerve and honesty, but gave her a cautioning look.  
“Isaac and Mounir are going to be moved. Their care is now a matter for the Lupus Dei. They do this kind of thing very well,” Nzinga said.  
Kenji looked at Koko, reading her feelings on her face. He could tell that one part of her accepted the news-the Lupus Dei was an organization even more secretive than the Network, archivists of the paranormal who also specialized in caring for people whose lives had been touched by the supernatural. Collaboration between the Network and the Lupus Dei was infrequent and limited, but both entities had existed since roughly the early Middle Ages.  
“So, that’s it,” Koko said. “We failed.”  
“No,” Diana said. “We tried. No one is saying that viral lycanthropy can’t be cured. The work that we did with the subjects of this study will help future researchers and patients. In the meantime, we know that we can trust the Lupus Dei to give Isaac and Mounir a chance at comfortable lives.”  
“Try to release your emotions around the experience,” Nzinga suggested gently.  
Koko looked furious, then her face softened, then trembled. Kenji wrapped his arms around his sister as she sobbed. She wanted to take care of others, but now she was the one who needed care. She had to be strong for her patients, but she couldn’t help breaking down, and he was here for her.  
“Without the treatments, Isaac’s dementia…” Koko said, and then broke down again.  
Kenji understood what she meant. She was lamenting the time that Isaac and Mounir would be losing. Kenji held her close. He had lost his first wife, Kelly, and let Daphne go for her own good, but he still had his family to love, and Koko would never have to hide her feelings from him. Time was the most precious thing anyone could be given.  
Kenji heard a beep, and gently released Koko as he looked down at his cell phone-like communication device, used by Hunters to message each other. It was Vasquez, and she wanted to meet him in the cells.  
He gave his sister an apologetic look.  
“I have to go to Level 4,” he said.  
“Subterranean? Nothing’s down there but the cells,” Koko said.  
“One of Willem’s wolves must have coughed up something valuable about his whereabouts or his plans,” Kenji said.  
“That’s good,” Koko said bleakly.  
“Hey,” Kenji said. “You’re going to find another project, and you’re going to help lots of people. And this isn’t the last attempt to cure lycanthropy, it’s a step in the process.”  
“Wow, you’ve giving such great advice, these days, I totally forgive you for putting gum in my hair and breaking my Furbee,” Koko said.  
“What the Hell is a Furbee? I gotta go. I love you,” Kenji said, left the conference room and took the closest elevator to the damp lower levels, old dungeons carved out of the stone.  
Vasquez and another female hunter, Sofia Rodriguez, were waiting.  
“Who’s Elio?” she said, without preamble. “The wolves in our custody have been strangely preoccupied with him. Some of them speak of protecting him, others are hell bent on finding and attacking him.”  
“The last part makes sense, if Willem is their master, its his influence,” Kenji said. “Elio was an intern here, in Dr. Wheatley’s energy medicine study on lycanthropy patients. He and Oliver became close.”  
Sofia raised her eyebrow at that word, deducing just how close.  
“He’s a Benandante, from a small town in Italy called Lupa. The Visconti-Sforza coven,” Nicole added.  
“If Oliver was in the study, we’ll have samples on file of his strain of the virus. We’ll need samples from all of the wolves connected to Willem,” Sofia said.  
“Easily arranged,” Kenji said, thinking lightning had struck and Koko had something to make her feel useful again. “I’ll tell Healer Masanori what you need.”  
Even siblings still had to refer to each other by their titles, like Hunter and Healer when speaking of Network operations. Round tables aside, there was still formality while on the job.  
“What’s your theory?” Nicole asked Sofia.  
“If Willem bit some of the vargulfs, and Oliver the others, they’re both experiencing transference through the virus of their masters’ intentions,” Sofia said.  
“But two different masters,” Kenji said.  
“Exactly. We don’t know how or why the virus transfers memories and desires this way, but its not uncommon,” Sofia said.  
“Maybe we should study how and why that happens, and we have the perfect subjects,” Nicole said.  
“Not my paygrade. Talk to Gristwood and Wheatley about it. First, we need the samples,” Sofia said. “It’ll save time if you two collect them. Some of those vargulfs are ornery, and you can deal with it better than some med intern from upstairs.”  
The Hunters on Subterranean were essentially prison guards, in a prison of monsters, and could be derisive about the lighter duties of those ‘Upstairs’. The Hunters who went out on field missions, however, they looked at as equals and comrades-after all, the rogue supernatural creatures they did not kill outside the Fortress became their charges.  
Kenji and Nicole got the appropriate materials from the clinic on subterranean level. Kenji typed his security clearance into the typepad on the door of Jen’s cell. He couldn’t help the sympathy he felt for her, because of her connection to Daphne. In certain lights, when her eyes had a certain look, and she had a certain expression on her face, she reminded him of Kelly, his wife, when she was sick. Jen looked vulnerable and haunted, and it touched Kenji’s guilt that he hadn’t bee able to help Kelly.  
He opened the cell door. On the ceiling of the cell were bars of bluish light, like the lights of an indoor garden. Jen’s blonde hair was lighter and longer, and her eyes were a honey amber color that didn’t occur in humans. She was becoming less human, more lupine. She was sick.  
“Hiya,” she said. She had the same accent as Daphne.  
“How are they treating you?” he asked.  
“ ‘Bout as well as I deserve,” she said.  
“Its different for you,” Kenji said, and knew that he shouldn’t have. They weren’t supposed to bond with creatures, or be especially kind to them in this way. They were wild things.  
“How?” Jen said.  
“I can see you fighting. Every time you escape, you find your way back here, Jennifer. Something is telling you its where you’re supposed to be,” he said.  
“But everything I want back is gone. I’m never going to just go to a party, or to the beach, again. I have nothing to say to all my old friends, and I see now that we were only just acquaintances, anyway. What I thought was the real world wasn’t real,” she said.  
“Maybe some of that is true, maybe some of it is despair,” he said. “When you can sort it all out, you’ll know you have hope.”  
“How did your wife die?” Jen asked.  
“I failed her,” Kenji said.  
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. I can’t imagine you failing a lady,” Jen said. “You sent Daphne away from all this, so she could have a normal life.”  
“1 out of 2 ain’t bad, then,” Kenji said.  
Jen laughed, and seemed more human.  
“Its Dan,” she said. “I feel like I can’t leave him. My mother, my grandmother, whenever a man needs something done or is feeling frustrated, they always told me or my sister or my aunts or whomever, as long as it was a woman, ‘Go help him.’ ‘Go help him,’ that’s what I always heard. I was proud that I could figure things our for Dan, or make him smile, or smooth things over and explain his behavior to people and make everything okay. That’s what I was supposed to do. I just want to go help him.”  
“Fuck him,” Kenji said. “You have to help yourself, and let us help you.”  
“Thank you for saying that,” she said softly. Kenji dared to touch her pale blonde hair, which was beginning to look like early dawn sunlight. He smoothed it behind her ear, and she turned to look at him.  
When she kissed him, he smelled an orchard of sunwarmed fruit, and the moist earthiness of a tropical climate. Hawaii, where he had grown up, until his grandfather in Japan had sent for him to learn how swords were made. That turned out not to be Kenji’s calling, and so he had next gone to various Fortresses and Temples in the Network, to learn how to be a Hunter. Jen tasted and smelled like the clean and frothing waters of waterfalls and springs hidden in Hawaiian jungles, and ripe, sweet, sunwarmed fruits picked from trees with dark, palmy leaves. It was fait accompli, instinct set free, that guided his hands to her breasts and to the moist cove between her legs. His hands, his lips, and his senses took refuge he had almost forgotten in her body. It felt like clouds surrounded them, like the magic of gods shielding lovers from view in a myth.  
The spell was broken by Vasquez’s voice from the communicator. He caught the word ‘escape’.  
“What’s going on?” Jen asked.  
He looked at Jen. He felt now the swirl of pheromones unique to female lycanthropes, and wondered how much of this she had planned. Was Jen distracting him, using his feelings against him?  
“The wolves have escaped. Again,” he said. This time, he knew, they would pursue Elio.  
He wanted to ask Jen if she had planned this, or seized the moment to distract him and facilitate the escape. He decided he didn’t have time to find out-he had to get to Elio, and protect him from the wolves.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver disagree, then make up, and Oliver tries to forget his burdens; Marzia sees a new side of Cristian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H, Beloveds! I posted two updates, today, so be sure not to miss Chapter 41! Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo!

Elio lay on Oliver’s stomach, holding a book of Arthurian stories over his head.  
“My mother’s a translator; she used to read me this kind of thing,” he said.  
“Did you dream of being a Knight?” Oliver asked fondly.   
“I had no pretensions about my suitability,” Elio said.  
Oliver laughed. He had known so suddenly that he loved Elio, as if his cells had suspected that all of this was Elio: his placidity on a lazy afternoon, the warm weight of him lying on Oliver’s body, and his humor. Oliver very much appreciated humor.  
“Well, if all knights are actually like the Hunters at the Fortress, that’s probably for the best. Pretty saturnine bunch, aren’t they?” Oliver said.  
Elio smiled. “Are you referring to Hunter Masanori? Would you happen to be jealous about him and Daphne?”  
“Is that what you’ve been worrying about all this time? I mean, since we don’t have any problems, right?” Oliver said.  
Elio sat up, and Oliver regretted the loss of him. It was kind of like having a cat who spoke French, having Elio curled up on his chest.  
“I’m serious. Its natural, if you are. You and Daphne were together for a long time,” Elio said.  
“I’ve never been this happy, Elio. I don’t deserve it, but I am,” Oliver said.   
Elio touched Oliver’s face, and held his gaze. Eyes, it turned out, could caress, at least Elio’s could. Oliver felt guilt overwhelm him, as he remembered what had happened in the garden when he ran away with Willem. He closed his eyes.  
“I was just joking. Okay, part of me wasn’t. I’m not being fair. You’ve never said anything like that about me, and Marzia,” Elio said. “And what we’ve shared, all three of us, since she became our Luna wouldn’t be possible if you didn’t trust us. I should trust you. I shouldn’t have said that.”  
“Elio, I’m not unhappy with you. It’s me. You don’t know what I’ve done,” Oliver said.  
“The past is the past. We have to focus on now,” Elio said.  
Elio didn’t understand, and Oliver didn’t have the courage to tell him. He wanted to accept the reassurance he knew should follow the comfort that Elio was trying to give him, but that would just be perpetuating the lie. He was hiding from everyone at the farmhouse the fact that he was a murderer, a vargulf, a Malandante, and endangering them. Elio returned to his arms, and Oliver tried to suspend all his thoughts and feel only love. The smell of lavender breathed through the open window, and Elio’s Arthurian poem fell to the floor as Oliver kissed him.   
“This is how every moon should be from now on,” Elio said, when he and Oliver broke away to breathe.  
“Here comes a little speech,” Oliver said fondly.  
Elio smiled. “I just mean, that in a few hours the moon will be full, and we get to see the world bathed in its light together for the first time. I can’t wait to see you fall in love with the way that it makes you feel. I already see it. It’s almost like Carnival-everything is heightened, musical, colorful and delicious, and you are hungry for everything and enjoy it with all of your heart, all of your soul. From now on, we’ll share that.”  
Elio’s dreams and belief that they would be happy from now on had smoothed over the tension that had flared between them. Oliver wanted to believe, too.   
Oliver kissed Elio, and felt Elio hold onto his shoulders as the rest of his body went pliant with surrender. Oliver grounded Elio with his hand on the small of his back and held him close. He didn’t have the heart to shatter this moment. The truth of who he was and what he had done could wait, he decided. 

 

Marzia hadn’t had time to carefully select what she wanted to bring with her when she had to leave the villa, to escape the regime of the captain, Massimo, and his daughter Giada. She was glad she had been able to save a few of the books that Claude had let her borrow from the bookstore-they all reminded her of quiet, peaceful days spent working there, the few kind customers who wandered in, the smell of brewing coffee, and the world of books surrounding her. She lay at the edge of a field of lavender, reading Ovid’s Metamorphoses. As she read of the poet’s exile in introductory notes, she realized that she and Elio were exiles, too.  
She didn’t want to feel that way, alone and cast out. She wasn’t sure, yet, what being the Luna of their coven meant, but she had noticed that she felt more connected to the earth. Each blade of grass beneath her feet was a distinct curl, the leaves and blossoms on the trees waved invitingly as if they were glad to see her, the sun caressed her with warmth, and the air whispered in a language she didn’t quite understand yet but felt familiar. She tuned into the feeling of the warm earth beneath her, the bed of warm, dry grass, and before her was an amethystine sea of lavender writhing in waves. The soapy, earthy sweet smell of it wafted between the warm earth and clear, blue, boundless sky.  
Marzia breathed and felt grounded and alive, content and serene. Then, she felt the presence of someone else, close. She had been able to feel people’s energy more acutely, too-their beauty and inner goodness, sadness, and secrets, like the bloody and confused scenes in Oliver’s mind. She didn’t know what to do about them, though, and had chickened out of telling him, or Elio, many times.   
She figured out who it was, and said, “Cristian?”  
She hadn’t payed close attention to the Romanian boy. He was slight, so he looked younger than he might have been. She had lumped him in with Vimini, when she first arrived, and thought of them as the children. Now, she wasn’t sure. When he helped Vimini in her garden, his shirtless musculature looked more mature than his face, and Marzia sometimes felt him looking at her as if asking ‘Why?’. As if she should have known all this time that he longed for her. She hadn’t noticed anything at first, now the whole world seemed to be divulging its hidden dimensions.  
“You can come out, now,” she said, and he stepped out of the shadows.  
“I came to check on you,” Cristian said.  
“I’m fine. I’m reading,” Marzia said.   
“You seemed worried about something,” he said.  
She waved him over, indicating that he should sit beside her, and he did so.  
She’d never noticed before that he had the same kind of beauty as Elio, the androgynous, graceful, delicate beauty with just a touch of the masculine, a Dionysian, lithe beauty that, like a statue behind a rope in a museum, tempted one to reach out and touch its face.  
“I think we all have a lot on our minds, after the things you’ve been saying, Cristian,” Marzia said. “What do you think this Egeria place is?”  
“So, you don’t believe me?” he said, and sounded legitimately crestfallen.  
“I know you’ve had visions. Elio had them too. But…I always felt like its your choice to give these things any importance. Can’t we just live, as we always have?” Marzia said.  
“It was different for me. I had to leave my home after I transformed for the first time. After that, I wandered. If there was a healer in the village, I’d find them after asking around, but no one had been able to tell me how to get rid of it, to be well, and normal again. That was what I wanted, so that I could go home, one day. Finally, one of the healers I spoke to told me about Egeria…so I began to look for it. I’d think it was a fairy tale, too, if I didn’t see her,” Cristian said.  
“Who?” Marzia said. “The goddess? I used to pray to a goddess, too, Cristian. I’d ask her why I could never seem to fit in with my family, and I asked her to take me away from my stepfather. I asked her to make Elio love me. I got some of what I wanted, not all of it. I don’t know what any of it means,” Marzia said.  
“Even with what you are? Doesn’t the sun, the earth, and the air speak to you?” he asked.  
And not only them, Marzia thought. She could also hear the water. Though the river was yards away, she felt like another half of itself was standing on the rocks beside it, her face to the mist of its rapids. On rainy days, the music of clouds transforming to rain was as arresting as a symphony. What’s more, Cristian had also become music and fragrance, a story of energy to her. She smelled his boyish sweat, and heard the anxious beating of his heart. She could feel how much he wanted to tell her something that would connect them.  
“Even with what I am, whatever that may be, I have a hard time believing in things that I can’t see, that don’t seem to have a place in the world that we can see. But, you do,” Marzia said.  
“It gives me hope to believe that there’s something out there,” Cristian said.  
“What’s Romania like?” she asked, after they had both paused for a while to contemplate hope, or the absence of it.  
“Its been so long…” he said, sounding homesick.   
Marzia touched his face. His gaze met her’s.  
“My dreams led me to you. Doesn’t that mean anything?” he said.  
“Who do you think I am, Cristian?” Marzia said. She was intrigued by the way he looked at her, with soft awe, but afraid of how much he seemed to need her to be something to him. She didn’t even know who she was to herself.   
“I’m not like you,” she said. “Its hard for me to believe.”  
“We don’t have to be alike to care about each other. I want you to be happy, but I don’t know how to reach you,” Marzia said.  
She took his hands, in a comforting, big sisterly way, and said, “We’re a coven now. We’re all connected. I’m sorry I’ve been distant. I’m not used to being needed. When the moon is full, I’ll try. To lead the songs and prayers the way that Zelenia did, to bless the coven, and…”  
When Cristian kissed her, Marzia’s first instinct was to slap him. Then, she realized that her mind had quieted totally, like nothing else she had ever experienced. She had been rambling, spilling her racing thoughts and insecurities about being Luna and Donna, and then his lips softly pressed to her’s and she felt her mind become a cloudless sky cradling a warm sun.  
They pulled away to breathe, and then she kissed him. Like Elio, he was thin, she felt protective towards his lithe frame, and intrigued by the strength in his arms and hands that his girlish body didn’t bely. She caressed his face, neck, shoulders, the bumps of his spine and his belly under his tshirt. She felt a transcendence and purpose, a delight in his body and her actions, that felt right. He kissed and touched her with ardor comprised of all the unleashed feelings of unrequited desire. She could feel how long he had watched and been enamored of her, when she thought he was just a kid.   
“Have you ever done this before?” she asked.  
“Only in my dreams, with the goddess,” he said.  
Marzia wasn’t a goddess, and she was afraid he would think that she was. It was no good to worship someone you loved. You could only be close if you were human together, or as close to human as wolves like them could be.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wolves greet the full moon, but intruders await in the forest...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everything, Beloveds! This story is nearly two years old, and you have been with me through every transformation. Thanks again!

Oliver and Elio continued to kiss, and the scent of lavender seemed to grow stronger. Elio closed his eyes, all his consciousness poured into the kiss, but an image danced in his mind’s theater of a waving field of lavender, and two slender wolves sinuously bounding through it.  
He broke away from Oliver’s kiss-swollen lips, and looked up into his flame blue eyes.  
“Marzia, and Cristian,” Elio said. “They’ve transformed already.”  
“Not surprised. He looks at her like she’s avocado toast,” Oliver said.  
Elio laughed. “I assume that’s good?” Elio said.  
“Really? The avocado toast phenomenon hasn’t reached Lupa?” Oliver said.   
Elio hugged him and savored his smell, his shoulders, his nearness. This was the beloved body that housed Oliver’s voice, his wit, his intelligence, his love, and Elio was glad to have him near after so many trials.  
“We could join them-it would be our first transformation together,” Elio said.  
Oliver smiled, and Elio could tell Oliver realized how much that meant to him.   
“I thought there were a lot of rituals around that? Shouldn’t we do all those things?” Oliver said.  
“What is a ritual?” Elio said. “Its just a way of remembering who we are. We know who we are, don’t we?”  
“You do. I was never so lucky,” Oliver said wryly, with an edge of humor.  
“Well, I know who you are,” Elio said. “And I know that you’re troubled about something.”  
Oliver sighed. Elio could tell that he was one the verge of telling him what was on his mind. He ached for Oliver in these moments when he saw him withdrawing and afraid to come out of his shell. Yet, he also felt a desperate scrambling within himself to somehow make Oliver come back to him, and he was afraid that he had done something wrong.  
“I…Elio, I haven’t told you the truth. But, I have to, I have to tell you,” Oliver said.  
Elio put his arms around Oliver, and said, “Come outside with me. Let’s join Marzia and Cristian. They aren’t fighting it, the way you are, Oliver. You’ll be so much happier if you don’t fight anymore. There’s no reason to. ‘Come away with me, beloved. The winter is gone, the rains are over.’”  
“The Song of Solomon. Go big or go home, huh?” Oliver said.  
“I wanted you to know,” Elio said.  
“Wanted me to know…what?” Oliver said.  
Elio smiled. Such wonders were before them.  
“You’ll see,” he said.  
Elio took Oliver’s hand.  
“Wait- I have to ask Mathilda to look after Vimini,” Oliver said.  
“Its all covered,” Elio said.   
There was nothing stopping them.   
Elio and Oliver walked out into the afternoon sunshine. Vines clung to the farmhouse, and shuddered in a slight breeze. The boys walked through patches of shade thrown by small trees. When they came to a grove of plum trees trembling with silken white blossoms, Oliver stopped.  
Elio placed a soft, healing hand on Oliver’s lower back.   
“Beloved?” he asked.  
“I’m fine. Just…dizzy. And kind of hot. Is this it? Is this the Transformation?” Oliver asked.  
“Yes. Its beginning,” Elio said, with a mix of pride and concern.  
“Share my thoughts. I’ll give you strength,” Elio said.  
Oliver looked into Elio’s emerald green eyes. The boy from the Carnavale, the boy he had followed through the winding streets of a Northern Italian village poised between east and west, between the past and the presents, between the life Oliver had always known and a new world of monsters and miracles. Elio had been the golden thread through this labyrinth of horrors and mercies, and he was his anchor now as, with his innermost mind, Oliver opened his thoughts to Elio’s. The telepathy felt like a relaxation of pressure, and when the door opened between their mind Oliver was flooded with Elio’s impressions of the night around them.  
As Oliver had always suspected, Elio saw the world as a far more beautiful place than Oliver did. Oliver’s heart was fearful and distracted. Elio saw details with an artist’s sensitivity and gave Oliver the texture of sunlight as he saw it, and the way he noticed the languid, caressing arc of the way the branches swayed in the wind, heavy with flowers. Elio gave Oliver his world, and Oliver relished the light, warmth, beauty, and sweetness of it.   
His guilt was still in his heart, like a dagger made of ice, but around the perimeter of the pain was love.   
Oliver gazed up at the sun, and then all around at the grove of blossoming trees, and finally at the angelic young man before him, the Beloved he would seek to the city gates of Jerusalem, his Elio.  
“What a wonderful world,” he said, quoting a Louis Armstrong song he had loved in his childhood, and not thought of for a long time.  
“Now, you see,” Elio said, and caressed Oliver’s face.  
Together, they transformed, and the wolves they became slipped through the sunwarmed lavender. The herbs whispered around their bodies, and lashed their fur as they ran. Oliver followed the sound of Elio’s feet hitting the warm, dry ground, and the smell of blossoms that rose when the lavender hit Elio’s lean, darkly furred body. Elio bounded forward, speeding up like a joyful young puppy, and Oliver surrendered to the joy of running to follow him. The land beneath him encouraged his swift step, and the freedom felt like laughter. The smells of the earth, the air, and the herbs around them exploded into a heavenly bouquet.  
Marzia and Cristian lay in each other’s arms in the meadow. Marzia looked content, and her eyes met Oliver’s with encouragement and a deep seeing. She knew his heart, and was the only one who knew his crime, but she accepted him into her coven, her family, as Elio’s Beloved one.  
Elio became human again, at the edge of the meadow, and joined Marzia and Cristian. Oliver willed himself to do the same, borrowing Elio’s ability to do so.  
“I’ve never felt anything like this!” Oliver said. “I feel so free, and so…at peace. But, how is this possible? At the fortress, when I transformed, I just felt confused.”  
“You know yourself, now,” Marzia said, and reached for his hand.  
Elio kissed him.  
“Where should we go?” Cristian asked. “We need a forest far from humans to run, tonight, when the moon is full.”  
“Don’t worry-you won’t hurt anyone. You were tired and ill from your long journey when you first arrived,” Marzia said, and caressed his shoulders and hair lovingly.  
“Love gives us everything we need to change. As long as we know who we love, we can change,” Oliver said to Cristian.  
Cristian’s eyes filled with peace that Oliver had reached out this olive branch to him. The earlier discomfort dissolved, and they, too became family.  
Elio looked very happy, and Oliver’s heart was warm.  
“Take us somewhere far away, where we can be free,” Marzia said to Cristian. “You know. You remember.”   
Her voice was a loving whisper, and she caressed his ear with her lips as she spoke to him encouragingly. Oliver watched how her love transformed him-he went from a boy needing to ask where to go to a man with a vision coalescing in his eyes, gradually but all at once.  
Waves of warmth seemed to pulse around their skin, and they shifted again. The halo of vibrations framed Elio, and he shifted once more, too. Oliver felt his body getting the hang of it, and his mind was in a state of receptivity and trust. He transformed, too-it was like being surrounded by the coven gave him more energy than he could muster himself.  
Led by his memory, which was resurfacing now cleansed of pain, regret, fatigue, and illness, Cristian led them to the secret places he had haunted when he first came to Italy. The wolves ran, as the sky gradually lost its afternoon aquamarine color, and was set on fire to a canvas of golds, pinks, and orange tinted reds like citrus revealed from its peel. The sunset sky stretched over olive groves, over ruined stone farmhouses, and mysterious stones just buried beneath the wavy wildflowers of humble meadows that might have been what remained of ancient fortresses and temples. The wolves slipped into a forest of slender, dark trees, and the low, engorged, glit trimmed vermillion fruit sun looked impaled by the boughs of the fragrant evergreens. Oliver absorbed the sweet, stinging smell of the trees, the way they breathed expansively in the darkness, as the wolves of his coven slipped by him. The needles of the trees and their fur kissed him as his feet easily navigated the forest floor.   
The dark arms of the trees cradled the sunset sky and the setting sun’s red face. The wolves followed the sound of water and found a spring so clear it reflected the colors of the trees, dark and solemn shades of brown and green, that shifted kaleidocscopically and blended like paint as the water tumbled over the mossy rocks.   
Marzia bounded over the rocks, followed by Cristian, then Elio, and Oliver followed. How quickly the hours passed as they followed the river north, canting over the rocks, tracing it the way they and the river had come. The water became colder. A herd of deer, tawny, muscular animals whose bodies’ strength had a lithe grace, passed before them, swiftly running over the rocks, splashing the silver water, crossing the river and disappearing into the trees. The pause of the event brought time back to Oliver’s awareness, and he looked up, to an evening sky the color of dark amethyst, scattered with stars, and through the canopy the round, full moon. It felt like a blessing, like forgiveness, like redemption. Elio nuzzled his neck, and together they looked up.   
The peace was shattered by the keening howls of wolves. One cry rang after another, a piercing medley, and their shapes slipped through the trees, coming closer.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone.

Hi, Beloveds! I wanted to let everyone know that this story in its current form is being discontinued for the time being. I am going to edit it into an original work, but it is going to require a lot of changes. When Call Me By Your Name premiered, and I discovered the film and the book, I was in a much different frame of mind. I have changed a lot, as have my views. This is something I have struggled with for a long time, but I feel like I have to do what feels right for me. That means no longer engaging with Call Me By Your Name. However, I am really proud of my Benandante mythos about werewolves in Northern Italy, and appreciate everyone who follows it. If you would like to continue to do so, please bookmark the work and/or subscribe to Erato_Muse to see more.


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